


The man under the armour

by Manfie



Series: Settling on Sorgan [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cara can be vulgar, F/M, Gen, ManDadlorian, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Suggested steaminess, Those few weeks after they raised some hell, Wing(wo)man Cara, and Omera can be thirsty, and beyond!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 167,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manfie/pseuds/Manfie
Summary: The village on Sorgan can finally begin to recover from the raids, and maybe the Mandalorian and his foundling can too.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune & Omera (Star Wars), Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Series: Settling on Sorgan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800025
Comments: 864
Kudos: 328
Collections: An Assortment of Damn Good Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at creative writing in nearly 10 years! Please go easy

Omera watches with bated breath as the walker slips and goes down into the krill pond. Before she has a chance to wonder ‘ _what now_?’, a flash of shining silver catches her eye. The Mandalorian hurdles over the barricade and sprints to where the walker is sparking, a gleaming red device in hand. It strikes her, the amount of grace and speed he maintains in such bulking armour, while also setting her heart pounding in her chest. Throughout the battle her eyes had sought him out, as they often do, to see how he was fairing. It was a silly compulsion, as she knew she should be more concerned for herself than the skilled hunter. Regardless, she had found herself itching throughout the battle to move to his side and assist, especially when Cara had leaped out into the fray with his pulse rifle slung over her shoulder.

A stray blaster shot skims her head and singes her hair, bringing her attention back to her own line of defense briefly before she fires off a round of shots as cover for the Mandalorian. As soon as he’s thrown the device into the walker’s blown-out eye, he dives for cover in the pond with Cara just as the explosion sends a ball of fire into the air. The Klatooinians engaging in battle are quickly overpowered in their distraction, a few fleeing back into the woods. Omera lets out of sigh of relief, turning into a breathless laugh as arms are thrown around her shoulders in cheer. She laughs, tears streaming down her cheeks and clutches those around her tighter; the nightmare was finally over.

Amongst the uproar of celebration by the villagers, Omera sees the Mandalorian pull himself out of the pond, water gushing out of the pockets in his armour, and run down the path between the krill ponds towards them. For a split second she thinks he is running to her, and her heart quickens even further than the spluttering mess it currently is, but then he is passing her and heading into the heart of the village. She rolls her eyes at herself, scolds her silly emotions, and places her own rifle on the nearest crate before taking off after him to check on the kids.

She comes to a halt beside him as Winta emerges from the village hall with the child in her arms, a nervous look on her face as she glances around. Once she spots the Mandalorian and her mother, however, a smile threatens to split her face in two and she is rushing over to them as the other children hesitantly file out after her.

“I took good care of him,” her small voice says, looking up into his visor as he bends to her height. She passes the bundle of blankets over to the Mandalorian’s waiting arms and Omera finds herself smiling at her daughter’s shyness around the man.

“I know,” his modulated voice replies, standing to his full height once again and she notices the slight hesitance in his right leg, he must be more injured than he’s letting on. “You always do.”

The child coos in his father’s arms and Winta rushes to her mother’s side, throwing her arms around her middle and smiling up at her. Omera smiles down at her and brushes a thumb under Winta’s eye to catch a tear. When she looks up, the Mandalorian is watching her. She mouths a ‘ _thank you_ ’ and he tilts his head in recognition.

Around them the villagers have recovered from the immediate shock of their victory, throwing buckets of water to dampen the small fires and collecting everyone around a central bonfire to celebrate. She widens her smile at the bounty hunter, Cara now in tow, and inclines her head for them all to join the festivities.

As they all head over, cups of spotchka forced into their hands, Omera contemplates the bounty hunter not for the first time. He is cold and calculating, never speaking without purpose, and almost to the point where you wonder if he will respond at all. But then he does, and all the waiting had been worth it just to get a glimpse of the man under the armour. He walks with confidence, deadly and deliberate, hand either slung in his belt or resting on his blaster. For now, it is the former, his other arm cradling the child close to his chest, flames reflected in the shining metal. He strikes an opposing image.

He has placed himself on the uncrowded side of the fire, nearest to the forest where their battle took place not an hour before, and she doesn’t miss the subtle slant of his helmet every so often, keeping a watchful eye for any Klatooinian stragglers.

“Do you think he’ll let us play with him for a bit?” Winta says, breaking her out of her musings, and she can see the other village children keenly watching from the side-lines.

Omera glances down at her daughter and smiles, “We can ask. Do you want me to come with you?”

Winta nods her head wildly and pulls Omera along. She is secretly glad, as it is beginning to get difficult to come up with excuses to be in his presence all the time. On their way, they pass Cara, who squeezes Omera’s shoulder quickly on the way through. Omera gives her a relieved smile and when she turns back, she is standing in front of the Mandalorian.

She suddenly feels tongue-tied under his visored gaze but then glances down and gives Winta an encouraging smile.

“Can we play with him for a bit? We will all just be sitting over there,” she says pointing to the group of other kids a little ways off. They had all been staring intently but averted their gazes as soon as her finger was pointed, and the man followed her gaze.

He merely nods and passes the child over, unwrapping the blanket in the process so the child can move freely in just his robes. The child looks up at him and garbles, stretching his little hand up to his father.

“It’s alright,” he speaks to his boy quietly, “I’ll be right here.”

Satisfied, the child turns back to Winta and squeals happily as he is carried over to the kids. Omera lets out a laugh and moves to the Mandalorian’s side to watch them play. She notices his cup of spotchka sitting on a crate to the side, untouched, and wonders if she should offer to have some brought to the barn for him to enjoy later.

Before she can think more on it, he turns to her and gestures to the pallet behind them and sits. A bone-deep sigh escapes him once he is off his feet and she shoots him a grateful smile.

“Thank you, you saved us.”

“You saved yourselves,” he replies immediately, settling back against the pallet and watching her.

She goes to respond, but Caben comes stumbling over to them, cheeks a cheery red and obnoxious, a sloshing flagon of spotchka dangling precariously in his hand.

“More for you, Omera?” He dips down into a clumsy bow, “My fair maiden? Or you, kind sir?”

“We’re still going, thank you Caben,” she chuckles, holding her arms out ready to steady him if need be.

Caben gives a broad smile and straightens out of his bow, instantly sobering when he glances at the Mandalorian properly, “We cannot thank you enough.”

She glances back at the Mandalorian and watches as he straightens himself out of his slouched position and nods his head in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Caben nods back and scurries off to fill the waiting cups of other villagers.

Omera thinks perhaps he is smiling behind the helmet but cannot be sure. She smiles back at him regardless, eyes taking in the visor for any hints at what lay beneath. “It’s very disconcerting, you know? Not seeing your face to judge expressions. I’ve gotten used to your body language in the past couple of days, but still…” she trails off, thoughtful, before breathing out a laugh and shaking her head slightly. “Like now. I don’t know if you’re looking at me like I’m an idiot or… something else.”

She continues to stare at him as he remains silent, and almost appears to hesitate, before uttering an apology.

“No, I’m sorry, I get chatty when I’ve had a drink,” she blurts, face reddening as she places her empty cup on the ground and brings her hands up to hold her cheeks. “Time for bed, I think.”

He watches her for a few moments, not at all helping with the ever-reddening flush on her face, before turning back to watch the kids and releasing Omera from his penetrating gaze.

“Hmm,” he agrees. “The kid looks exhausted too.”

Omera calls to Winta, telling her they have five more minutes then it would be time for bed. None of the children complain too much, all exhausted from the harrowing day, and eventually they both stand to collect their children for bed. Along the way he is stopped countless times by various people giving their thanks, each getting more confident than the last until eventually an elderly man grasps his hand in both of his. She can see the stern lines of the Mandalorian’s body, obviously unfamiliar with the close contact and gratitude. Despite that, he places his free hand on the older man’s frail shoulder with a light squeeze and signature tilt of his helmet.

Omera is watching him, her cheeks aching from the smile constantly plastered there, when she catches Cara’s knowing gaze from across the fire. She has her own entourage of people thanking her, but Omera knows Cara had caught her ogling her friend. Omera quickly averts her gaze, clearing her throat.

Soon, they are all out of grateful villagers and they finally make it to the sleepy circle of children, the child unsurprisingly tucked into Winta’s arms as she hums a quiet song. With the child’s father’s approach, Winta instantly stands and passes the boy over with a shy smile. Omera finds it hard to not be star struck in the Mandalorian’s presence so quickly nods a goodnight and hurries off to her hut with Winta in tow, before she can embarrass herself further in front of the man.

Although he seems for the most part to be distant in all regards, she has also noticed the small details. The way he sometimes lingers closer than strictly necessary, or the look of approval clear through his visor when she had shot true during training. She hadn’t been lying before when she’d told him she had gotten used to his body language, he was surprisingly easy to read at times. And she can only hope that her infatuation is not one-sided.

She ushers a tired Winta inside, turning to dim the lantern by the entrance when she catches sight of the Mandalorian as he enters the barn, rocking the child gently and leaning down as if speaking quietly to him. She smiles at the sight, of the imposing, deadly hunter, enamoured by the small cooing child, before heading into the hut and closing the drape behind her.

* * *

By the time he trudges into the barn, bones weary and joints aching from the constant onslaught of adrenaline and abuse, the child is already asleep in his arms, snoring softly and huddling deeper into the blanket. He gently sets him down in the crib, tucking the blanket tightly around his small body, and steps back for a moment, watching for any signs of stirring.

When it becomes clear that the child is lost to this world for the night, the Mandalorian quickly retrieves the basin from the corner of the barn and makes his way to the well around the back of the village hall. It has become routine in the past few days in the village. Once everyone has retired for the night, he collects water from the well to wash, both himself and his armour. He now looks forward to making a stop at the Razor Crest for a proper shower as the immediate threat to the village is resolved.

As he cranks the lever on the well and watches the water flow, his thoughts wander to the village’s young widow. Her strength and determination as fierce as her beauty. She is kind, compassionate, thoughtful, all things good in this dark world. He sighs to himself as soon as the thoughts surface, as nothing good will ever come of them, his lifestyle just didn’t allow for that. Besides, he had next to nothing to offer her.

Once back in the barn, he sets the basin on the table and with one quick glance to check the child is still asleep, he quickly removes his armour. Shedding off the bodysuit is much more difficult, it having half-dried into a crisp mess in the time he had spent in front of the fire, bits of pondweed clinging to the rough fibres. Pulling off the base clothes underneath, he quickly gets to work trying to wash the scent of krill off his skin with the soap the village uses. It is made from a local cactus plant that set his skin tingling, but cleans, nonetheless.

During the process he takes stock of his injuries, both new and recovering, his body a patchwork of scars, cuts and bruises where the beskar doesn't cover. None looked particularly concerning, some wounds scabbed over for now but may be requiring further attention come morning.

Once clean he dresses again in a fresh set of base layers and bodysuit that he’d previously stacked neatly at the foot of his cot, donning the helmet again. He scrubs his armour and clothes as quickly and thoroughly as his tired body will allow for tonight, with the intention of seeking Omera out in the morning to inquire further about where he might wash his clothes properly. Once done, he lays the clothes over the backs of the dining chairs with a wet slap and quickly refastens the beskar with practiced ease. He empties the basin and goes to his cot to settle in for the night.

Not once had the child stirred throughout the process. The Mandalorian turns out the lantern, rests his hand on his sidearm, and at last allows himself to rest his eyes, sleep overcoming him surprisingly quickly with dreams of endless days in the sun, a rejoicing village, and the silhouette of a beautiful widow waiting for him. 

...

He awakens with a start in the morning, the barn impossibly light as sun streams in through the slits in the woven blinds. He sits up in the cot, body protesting and stiff, and sees the kid had slept through, still bundled up and snoring.

He lets out a huff and rolls up onto his feet, working out the kinks in his shoulders in the process. It is as if his body has been just holding itself together these past couple of weeks, and now with things settled for the most part, his injuries are catching up with him. He hadn’t seen anything to cause concern in the dim light last night, but his right leg was definitely giving him some grief.

“Let’s get you some breakfast, kid,” he murmurs softly, gently easing the blankets down from the child’s face and waiting for him to stir.

Big, brown eyes flicker open and he makes a high-pitched moan as he stretches his little claws and yawns. Soon, the haze of waking leaves his face and he giggles, reaching his arms up to be picked up.

Walking into the village hall, the Mandalorian notes that there may have been one too many flagons of spotchka going around last night. The hall is decidedly empty save for a few clusters of patrons looking worse for wear.

He spots Winta at a table near the back with some of the other children, or more, she jumps to her feet and waves frantically to ensure he spots her. He makes his way over and places the kid down on the space they had vacated for him, boosted up by a small basket on the bench so he can reach the tabletop.

“I’ll get you some grub,” he says as he rolls the too long sleeves of the kid’s robe up, then turns to Winta. “Where’s your mother?”

Winta shrugs, scooping up a large spoonful of porridge from her own bowl and offering it to the kid, “She’s around.”

The Mandalorian nods at the logic of children and is about to set off to get some food for the kid instead of mooching off Winta, when two bowls suddenly materialise in front of him. The woman holding them offers a kind smile and nudges the bowls forward again, “For you and your boy.”

“Thank you,” he returns and accepts them gratefully. “The kid can have mine too.”

As he places the bowls on the table in front of the child, he just glimpses Omera outside, bent down at one of the outermost krill ponds.

“Can you watch him?” he asks Winta, who practically swells with pride and nods energetically.

“Be good,” he tells the kid with a stern finger then scoots the bowls within his reach, tucking the rolled sleeves back from where they have slipped down again.

Satisfied that Winta can handle it from there, he makes his way over to Omera. As he approaches, he realises she is crouched at a small stream, rubbing clothes along a washboard. _His_ clothes. He has a moment to be thankful that he had given them a quick pre-wash last night before she is glancing up at him, eyes squinted in the morning light.

“You didn’t have to do that. I was meaning to find you this morning to ask about where I might wash them.”

She merely smiles and glances back at her work, “It’s fine. It’s the least I can do actually, considering all you’ve done for us.”

He purses his lips under the helmet, unsure how to respond. He would do it ten times over if it meant she’d always look at him like that. He realises he’s probably taken too long to respond when she starts speaking again.

“I wanted to apologise for last night,” she says. An absurd gesture, he thinks, what could she possibly have to apologise for? “About not being able to read your expressions. I respect your religion and find it admirable… I did not mean to offend.”

He is still reeling, trying to comprehend when exactly she thought she had offended him, while also feeling a coiling in his stomach that she admires his dedication. Her face reddens as she wrings the clothes out, sudsy water running free, then stands before him, absently brushing a lock of loose hair from her face.

“You’ve probably noticed, but… my eyes tend to follow you.” Yet now they avoided anything in his vicinity.

He wills himself to say something, _anything_ , because at this rate she may think he has become mute. He doesn’t understand when he became the kind of man that gets tongue-tied around beautiful women.

Cara eventually saves the day, or makes it worse, he is unable to decide, and saunters over with a knowing smirk, “Fine morning, isn’t it?”

Omera abruptly swoops down to retrieve the washing and begin hanging it out to dry, the redness in her face now travelling down her neck too.

“Have you eaten?” she asks by way of distraction.

The Mandalorian reports that he hadn’t but would later, his weapons requiring his immediate attention before he would scout the perimeter. With that, Omera and Cara head to the village hall for breakfast, and the Mandalorian retreats to the safety and privacy of the barn.

Once inside, he stands for nearly a full minute staring blindly at the pile of weapons, wondering when his life had gotten so complicated. He had come to Sorgan to lay low, relax, yet being in Omera’s presence was anything but.

He hears deliberate heavy footfalls on the porch and glances up to see Omera approaching with a small tray in hand. Her cheeks again flush a pretty pink as she offers the tray over, and he notices he may have one-upped the kid’s meal. There was a hearty portion of porridge, an assortment of fruits and bread and a tall pitcher.

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

She waves him off and leaves him to eat, saying she will collect the dishes when he is finished, and walks back towards the hall.

He sighs and takes a seat, working through the weapons meticulously and allowing his mind to drift off to safer topics of weapon maintenance and condition. Once done, he works at repairing, buffing and polishing the beskar of his armour, piece by piece. He nibbles away at the food in between and is surprised by the end that he has mostly devoured all she had given him. He briefly wonders if he will get fat here, as she was constantly ensuring he had enough food, going as far as to always bring him a generous serving in private when he would have normally just gone without.

When he decides he has hidden out long enough and regained his composure, he ventures outside again, catching Omera’s eye as she is surveying the damage to the village. He approaches her and gingerly passes the tray back, thanking her in the process.

She accepts it with a smile, balancing it between her hip and one hand, her other arm thrown across her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun.

“There’s a lot of work to be done,” she sighs, looking out over the ruined krill ponds and huts, the AT-ST still in a smoking heap in the pond. “Although no-one is quite in the right state to do anything about it this morning. Best to let them recover from last night first.”

The way she says it is so unhurried and carefree, though he suspects she has deep rooted concerns judging by the way she is worrying her lip. He nods his head in agreement, shifts his weight onto his left leg and rests his hands on his hips to assess the carnage.

“I’ll help too. Cara and I just need to do a quick scout of the forest first. Make sure the raiders don’t get any ideas.”

She uncharacteristically takes her time to respond, and he glances at her to notice her lips pursed in thought, “I know you’re hurt.”

He wasn’t expecting _that_. Getting hurt was generally just part of the lifestyle of a bounty hunter, but the unmistakable concern in her voice was a first for him. No one had ever shown concern for him, let alone have it affect them as clearly as it was affecting her.

“I’ve had worse,” he says by way of reassurance, though judging by the humorous huff she lets out, he thinks he may have missed the brief.

He can just make out Cara at the tree line on the other side of the ponds, waving him over, and he knows his time dilly-dallying is over. Despite how on edge Omera makes him, he also feels strangely at peace in her company; a rare and treasured thing in his line of work.

He quickly composes himself, straightens his shoulders and angles himself ready to make a getaway.

“I watch you too,” he blurts, storming off to where Cara is waiting, wondering if Omera understood that he was trying to validate her confession, and that it was not one-sided.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian and Cara do recon., Omera helps with his wounds, and they prepare for a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos people have left!

He can tell Cara missed nothing as he breezes right past her into the forest, conscious of Omera’s eyes still on his back as he fled. The minute they are under the cover of trees she falls into step beside him and lets out a whole-hearted chortle.

“Care to tell me what the hell that was about?”

He peers at her out the corner of his visor but does not halt his steps; there is no way she could have heard their conversation from where they had been standing.

“How are you feeling this morning?” He asks her instead, changing the subject. “I noticed you had more than your fair share last night.”

He is relieved to see she has let it drop for now as she blows out a puff of air and throws her arms wide as they continue their walk.

“Right as rain! It takes something a bit stronger than spotchka to put me on my ass.”

“Judging by the state of the other villagers this morning, I would say it is plenty strong.”

Cara chuckles, waving him off vaguely, “You know these backwater bumpkin types, no endurance. If you took that bucket off and tried it, you would know.”

He pauses for a time, switching his HUD to tracking and seeking out multiple footprints, all headed in the same direction.

“I don’t feel the need to drown my sorrows,” he throws over his shoulder offhandedly as he turns to follow the tracks.

He doesn’t notice Cara’s taken aback expression as she trudges after him and mutters, “Whoa, steady on.”

He abruptly stops and turns to face her, sensing the change in atmosphere and the light-hearted lilt absent from her voice. She is looking at him as if to say ‘ _What, asshole?_ ’

“Sorry,” he utters. “That was uncalled for. Your sorrows are your own.”

He is not expecting the stunned laugh that erupts from her, or the incredulous look she is giving him.

“I’m just messing with you! _Kriff!_ ” She is still laughing and slaps his shoulder to continue forward the way he had been heading. “You need to lighten up, man. There is a _lot_ of tension clamped under that dome.”

He shakes his head on a sigh and shrugs her off, continuing forward, “Come on.”

“Well, I can already tell this is going to be an interesting friendship.”

They follow the tracks that lead them to the Klatooinian base, mostly destroyed in their ploy to bring the battle back to the village last night. It appears as if whatever had been left behind has since been scavenged and the raiders have moved on, judging by the tracks leading further away. Very few had retreated into the woods last night, most having been downed by blasters during the fight, or died sometime after judging by the bodies the Mandalorian and Cara had just found on the way back to the base.

“Looks to me like our job here is done,” Cara says, kicking aside a broken crate and grinning over at him. “They won’t be making the same mistake twice.”

He hums back in agreement, scanning around the camp site. There was no evidence to suggest the raiders would be back, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something.

“What’s the matter?” Cara murmurs when he still looks hesitant.

“Why’d they have an AT-ST?”

Cara quirks her face in thought for a moment, hands on her hips. Perhaps not in much thought, however, as she lets out an over-exaggerated sigh and shrugs after a few seconds.

“I’ve got nothing. But what does it matter, right? That thing is scrap now. We’ve done our job. I say we just do a couple perimeter checks, every now and then, and rest up. Soak in the sun and enjoy it while we can.”

He stares at her through his visor and she slaps his shoulder on the way out of the camp. He has to admit, it sounds tempting. After all, that was the entire reason he had decided to land here.

“Besides,” she begins again, smirking over her shoulder at him. “They’re happy to have us, some more than others.”

He narrowly dodges the elbow she jabs at him as he steps up beside her and sighs. She just let’s rip with another of her full-bellied laughs.

What an interesting friendship indeed.

* * *

Omera gathers her loose hair and drapes it over one shoulder, letting the cool breeze settle on the sweat soaked nape of her neck. The sun had been as unrelenting as always today, yet being submerged in the cool ponds farming krill was usually a welcome reprieve. There had been no such luxury today, though, and hauling the dead was both physically and emotionally draining.

Once the Mandalorian had set off into the woods with Cara, Omera had allowed herself a few moments to scrutinise his back and contemplate what he had just said.

‘ _I watch you too_.’

He had said it in such a rush that she had almost missed it entirely, and even now she is still unsure whether she heard him right. She had noted previously that the modulator on his helmet tended to cause a fair amount of interference, and she wondered if possibly he had used that to his advantage. Normally he would speak evenly and deliberately, and there was no ambiguity in his words.

Omera huffs to herself and tries to banish him from her thoughts for what seems to be the umpteenth time today. They had work to do and her infatuation could wait. She spies Winta just inside the hall with the child and other children where they had been instructed to remain for the time being. They wouldn’t get in the way but could also be kept an eye on from their position, but it also limited their sight of the carnage of war. Although Omera had no doubts that Winta was more than capable of watching the Mandalorian’s boy, she knew it was an unfair pressure to put on such small shoulders and knew Winta felt at ease with the safety net of adults nearby.

The village was still deciding on what to do with the walker. Collectively they had come up with many ideas. Winch it out, however they would manage that, but then what? Fix it? No, no one in the village had any idea about the kind of mechanics required for a task such as that. Scrap it? Maybe, but again with limited knowledge how would they decide what parts were useful, or even what parts would sell? That thread of ideas seemed to be a wasted effort.

Stoke had suggested just sinking the walker fully into the pond, as the water was now contaminated anyway and the krill pods there had been lost. It seemed like a backwards step, but Stoke had a point. It was the quickest, easiest solution, and there was something to be said about dealing with it promptly so everyone in the village could move on and live again.

The village agreed to not make a decision yet, not until they get the opinions of their companions first. So, with the walker dilemma saved for later, the immediate task was to deal with the bodies, both friend and foe. It was while loading the first of the raider bodies onto the repulsorlift speeder that the Mandalorian and Cara returned from their scout mission.

“Alright, what’s the damage? Where can we help?” Cara asks once they stop in front of her, looking around at the progress.

“Did you find anything?” Omera replies, not missing how the bounty hunter lingers in the back quietly, yet surprisingly it is he who speaks up.

“We’re sure they’ve moved on, their base was stripped, and the tracks headed off to the east,” he looks off to the side where there is a growing pile of enemy bodies. “You’ve been busy.”

“We’ve moved our own onto the funeral pyre… there were only a few but…”

Cara steps forward and squeezes her shoulder, “I’ve never seen soldiers fight more courageously.”

Omera grips her hand in return, swallowing back the tears as her eyes burn. She nods fiercely and clears her throat.

“We will burn them too. Once we’ve transported them, we will set our pyre then theirs. Then we will deal with the walker.”

Cara nods and the Mandalorian steps forward, “The AT-ST can wait, those you’ve lost should be honoured with undivided care. Put us to work.”

Omera is touched by his words and willingness to help, even after all he had already done for them, but she can not ignore his very obvious injuries.

“You’re hurt, your injuries need undivided care first. The village can finish up here while you tend to your wounds.”

“I don’t think-” he begins to protest.

“-No arguments, that’s what’s happening,” she counters, reminiscent of their conversation when Winta had wanted to play with the Child outside the barn back on the first day they met.

The Mandalorian looks to Cara for support, but she merely shrugs, “I’m not going to mess with a woman that looks that determined. But you might need to go with him, fiercely stubborn our bounty hunter here is.”

“It’s decided then,” Omera concludes, her face lighting up, then she turns to Cara. “I’ll help patch him up, then we will all come out for the lighting.”

In the brief moment she had turned her attention away from him, the man had made his way over to the hall where the children were. Omera smiles after him, touched by his warmth for the small child. Cara smirks at her and gives her a gentle nudge, “I’ll sort this out, you go. I’ll keep an eye on both the kids.”

Omera flushes instantly, giving a grateful smile and moves off quickly towards the hall so Cara cannot tease her further.

As she approaches, she hears Winta speaking enthusiastically and the child squealing in glee at his father’s return. Winta only stops her assault of words when he murmurs back his gratitude and Omera steps up behind them.

“Winta, please keep him here a little longer. His father is injured so I’m going to help him, but it wouldn’t be good for the child to see.”

“Don’t worry, Mama, I’ve got it under control!” Winta retorts with a toothy grin.

The Mandalorian gently strokes the child’s head, to which he reaches little green hands up to catch at his fingers and hold him there.

“I won’t be long, little one,” he reassures, then turns to Omera, sweeping his arm out and indicating for her to lead the way.

* * *

After stopping by Omera’s hut for her med kit and the well for water, they make their way to the barn, the Mandalorian lagging behind as he tries to think of a way to get out of this. Cara hadn’t been kidding; Omera was very determined, and he supposes she was also correct in assuming he was stubborn. It probably made for a disastrous mix.

Upon the threshold Omera pauses and looks up at him with a kind smile, waiting for him to enter his lodging first. He appreciates the gesture, she respects his privacy and personal space enough to wait to be invited in, despite it being her barn to start with.

She follows him in and sets her med kit on the table, instructing for him to take a seat on the cot. He feels an unfamiliar stirring in his stomach being alone with her as he sits down on the cot. He thinks of making a joke, about her being very presumptuous in suggesting he gets straight on the bed. He doesn’t have the confidence to voice it and by the time he thinks he may have built it, the moment is gone.

“So, how bad is it, really?” She asks in a way that makes it apparent she will know if he’s lying.

“Not so bad,” he replies, not a lie, a compromise. “Most of my injuries are from before the fight last night.”

The worried look she shoots him leaves an ache in his chest, and he never wants to see that look on her face again. Then she gestures to his armour and he freezes, “I can’t.”

She doesn’t look surprised, “How do you heal your wounded?”

“We deal with our injuries ourselves, sometimes another in the tribe will help if needed,” he explains, but knows she’s waiting for him to continue when she merely stares at him with a raised brow. “Or in desperate circumstances an outsider can assist. This is not a dire situation. I will be fine.”

“You are not fine. I saw the way you were limping. _Please_ ,” she emphasises, bending to eye level in front of him. “Let me help you.”

He swallows thickly and avoids her eyes, even though he knows she can’t see through the visor, he feels strangely on display.

“I can tend to it myself,” he states but she remains unconvinced and he pities anyone else that has ever been on the receiving end of her determination. “I am fine, I assure you. I might just need some supplies, dressings, and I’ll cauterise anything that needs it.”

He is concerned that perhaps that was the wrong thing to say as suddenly she looks appalled, tears collecting in her eyes as she comprehends what life must be like for a bounty hunter, the pain he must endure without support.

A lump forms in his throat at the conflict he has caused her and he hesitantly brings his hand to her shoulder, squeezing gently. “This is the Way.”

She looks into his visor for a couple more seconds, then nods slightly, standing and collecting the supplies from the table and placing them at his bedside. She retrieves the cauterising tool from the crate he directs her to and fills a small basin with the water collected from the well.

Once everything is laid out for him, she lingers by the table, fingers absently running along the grain in the wood.

“May I sit here? I’ll turn away but this way I’ll be here if you need anything,” she pauses, but continues when he draws breath to refuse. “Please?”

She is pleading, and in that moment, the Mandalorian thinks he will never be able to deny her anything again.

“Okay, thank you.”

In the end, she turns and sits on the chair with her back to him, pulling her legs up to fold underneath herself as he gets to work quickly. He remembers his injuries from when he briefly inspected them last night and knows the only one on his upper body that was of potential concern was the gash on his bicep from his run in with three Trandoshans on Arvala-7. He had cauterised it that night, but the constant onslaught of fighting had meant the skin had opened itself again multiple times and never fully meshed back together.

He removed his chest plate and left pauldron and vambrace, slipping his arm out of the body suit to inspect the wound. Sure enough, it oozed slowly, blood bubbling up from the wide gash. He tested the wound edges, pulling them apart to judge if he maybe needed stitches.

No, cauterising and rigid bandaging should do.

He grits his teeth against the the burning zap of the tool, tasting copper in his mouth and feeling his hair stand on end underneath the helmet. He glances up quickly and hears a very low whimper escape Omera as she flinches. He knows she is struggling and trying hard to not react.

“It’s okay,” he grunts, and clears his throat before he tries again. “I’m alright. It’s almost done.”

She lets out a shaky breath and nods stiffly, “Stars! I wish you’d let me help.”

“You’re…helping plenty. Having you here is…nice,” he manages to get out amongst the pain. She lets out an incredulous snort, then he breathes out a sigh too. “Done. I’ll just bandage the rest and then we can get back to helping everyone.”

He sees her shaking her head and can’t help the smile that twitches at his lips.

“What about the rest of your injuries?”

He quickly bandages up his arm firmly and dons the body suit and armour again, knowing the rest is just severe bruising from both the mudhorn’s, and Cara’s, beatings. He suspects the issues with his right leg may be due to falling from the Jawa’s Sandcrawler, there was no visible injuries otherwise and there was a constant ache in the lumbar of his back. It would heal on its own with time, especially if he did as Cara suggested and rested up. He tells her as such and he gets the inkling she is just relieved there will be no more cauterising.

The Mandalorian stands and makes his way over to where she sits, resting his hand on the back of the chair, “All done.”

Omera turns around with a relieved smile just as Cara steps up to the door with the child and Winta. As soon as setting his big eyes on the man, the kid struggles out of Winta’s hold and wobbles along the ground towards him.

The Mandalorian huffs out a breath and swoops down to scoop the kid up, as he so clearly was wanting judging by the way his arms had stretched up.

“We’re all set to begin,” Cara spoke softly, no further explanation needed.

When there is no movement, he turns his head to look at Omera where she is frozen at the table still, a hauntingly blank look on her face. He knows that look, of despair, but cannot think of what to say to lighten her burden. She soon snaps out of it on her own and nods, standing and leading them all out to where the pyre had been constructed.

* * *

Omera walks as if on stilts to the back of the village where everyone had already gathered. She stands holding Winta in front of her with the Mandalorian and Cara hovering close behind. The joy of their win last night is well and truly dissolved once faced with the fact that they had lost their own too. The pyre for their people was only small, and she closes her eyes to send a silent prayer that the Mandalorian and Cara had come to their aid. Further away sits the pile of Klatooinians.

One of the elders of the village steps towards the pyre and rests his hand on one of the logs, eyes downcast and voice sombre, “Today we honour those that have fallen and say goodbye. The galaxy is a darker place without you, but we know you now walk among the stars, watching over us.”

He closes his eyes in prayer, the village following suit. And when he opens them again, it is with shaking hands that he ties the teal thread onto the pyre, “And with this knot we bind you, know your soul will always have a place here.”

“With this knot we bind you,” the village utters in unison, and Omera clutches Winta tighter.

As he steps back, the baskets of threads are passed around and people make their way to the pyre to murmur a few words and tie their thread. One of the baskets is passed to Omera, and she makes sure the hunter and Cara get a strand also before she passes it on.

“Come, Winta.” She whispers, nudging her daughter forward and encouraging the other two as well.

Even the child in his father’s arms is quiet, a sadness to him that does not belong on one so young, his little hands clasping the thread tightly to his chest.

They walk forward together and tie their strands, though none share any words, before stepping back and waiting for the rest of the village to finish.

Eventually, once everyone has made their peace, the same elder as before walks forward and passes the torch to Omera to light the pyre. She grasps it tightly and makes to step forward, but the Mandalorian stops her with a gentle hand to her arm, “Can I say something?”

She blinks her eyes fiercely to stop the tears from collecting and gives him a watery smile, her heart feeling as though it will burst.

“Please,” she gestures him forward. “We would be honoured.”

She steps to the side as he steps forward and clears his throat, adjusting the child in his arms. He places one hand back on the pyre and bows his head, the child straining his neck to look up at his father with adoration.

“You were not trained for war, but your bravery outshone even the most skilled soldiers. It was my honour to fight alongside you for peace. _Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an_.”

He steps back and turns to Omera as she moves to his side. He gives her a small nod and she brings the torch to the kindling, setting the pyre alight and sending flickers of embers into the setting sun.

They let the pyre burn bright and full before setting the pile of Klatooinians alight too, and Omera finds him standing at the back of the crowd.

She makes her way over just as the last of the villagers give him their thanks and move on.

“Thank you for that,” she whispers, watching the flames reflected in his armour. “Was that your language? It’s beautiful.”

He turns to her then and pauses for a moment before speaking, “It doesn’t translate well in Basic. It is part of the funeral rites of Mandalore. We recite them for our fallen, for the spirit and heart of our brothers cannot be broken, we are one in life and death.”

She merely stares at him when he’s done, completely in awe of the man who is so withdrawn and private, yet has given the village such a tremendous gift and insight into his soul. She cannot help but to shake her head in disbelief, having thought people such as him no longer existed in this cold world.

“Thank you… it will never be enough for what you have done for us, but thank you.”

He is silent for a time, watching her, then turns his visor back to the flames.

“There is no debt here.”

She smiles, turning back to the fire also. She knows there is nothing significant she could ever offer this man, but she will give freely whatever he will take.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They decide what to do with the AT-ST, the Mandalorian takes a well-earned rest, and they plan a trip!

The Mandalorian is jolted from his thoughts when Omera arrives, swinging her legs over the bench to join him where he sits with Cara and the kid while they eat breakfast. He wants to kick himself for being so unobservant. Normally no one could get the jump on him, but he had been distracted with memories of the funeral last night.

He understood the village’s desperation to save their home, and felt such sorrow at what it had cost them. He knew it only too well, having lost two homes in his lifetime.

“We would like your advice,” she declares to them both, setting her own bowl down in front of her but not moving to eat. “We have a few ideas of how to deal with the walker, but would appreciate your expertise.”

It is at that moment that the kid tips his bowl higher and begins inhaling the rest of its contents. The Mandalorian quickly takes the bowl from him, swatting at his grasping claws as he makes a grumble of protest and reaches for the bowl.

“Slow down, Womp Rat,” he grumbles in return, using the kid’s abandoned spoon to collect the last of the porridge.

He feels the tips of his ears redden as Omera lets out a small laugh behind her hand when he puts the spoonful in the kid’s eagerly awaiting mouth. ‘ _You’re making me look bad, kid_ ,’ he thinks and sets the bowl out of reach.

Satisfied, the kid slides down from his perch and takes off across the hall. The Mandalorian sighs and is about to reach his arms out to capture him when Omera speaks up, looking past his shoulder from where she sits across from him.

“I can see him, he’s just heading over to the other children.”

He twists his body to follow her gaze, gritting his teeth as his back protests, and sees she is right. The kid must sense his gaze because he turns and lets out a faint warble.

“Be good,” the Mandalorian warns, pointing a finger. “And stay where I can see you.”

“I’ve got him, mister!” Winta pipes up and runs to scoop the kid up, making starship noises and careening around with him. The kid is in fits of laughter by the time she settles down with the others.

He turns back to the table and can’t help but stare at Omera as she watches their kids. There is a look of pure joy on her face, so different than the one she wore last night, and it sets his stomach into a riot of nerves.

“She’s a good kid,” Cara laughs as she watches on as well.

Her comment draws Omera’s gaze and she sends a smile to the woman at her side. It is plain to see that, for Omera, the sun rises and sets with Winta. And the Mandalorian thinks that maybe he is beginning to understand what that feels like.

“What ideas did you have?” He asks, bringing them back to the previous conversation and emotions he was more accustomed to.

“None of us here have any experience in that kind of advanced mechanics, so we don’t really know _what_ to do. Stoke thinks we should just bury it where it lays and be done with it. I have to say I agree with him, we just need to move on.”

He nods his head in thought and glances at Cara. She is nodding too, a look of sympathy on her face as she regards the other woman and speaks up, “Pulling that thing out would be no small feat.”

“It’s a shame to lose that pond, and it seems like a lot of wasted materials, not to mention potential trade,” Omera retorts, finally picking up her spoon and eating.

He deliberates for a few moments, twitching his fingers where they sit folded on the table in front of him, “I think sinking it is the best option in this case. Sure, there is probably some salvageable parts, but with them being submerged and its interior hardware having been blown out, I doubt their worth. What may be worth looking into is the cockpit, normally a safe box will hold flares, blasters. And it is probably the only part that won’t be damaged.”

The spoon stops halfway to Omera’s mouth and her eyes cut to him, “You mean… someone was in that thing?”

“Normally two,” Cara interjects with a nod, “An AT-ST, it's designed to look intimidating, like a towering battle droid, but they are just vessels, not really any different from a starship.”

Omera is quiet while she takes that in, resuming eating.

“You’re right, though,” Cara starts up, turning to face him again. “Seeing what we can get from the cabin is relatively easy. I’m afraid anything beyond that is above my skill set.”

“Mine too,” he agrees. “And even if we could scrap for other parts, they would probably have limited use for you here, and selling them would bring about too much interest.”

Omera’s eyes are wild as they flicker between then two of them, trying to keep up with their train of thought.

“So, I guess that would be our recommendation. Strip the cabin and sink the rest,” Cara sits back and folds her arms behind her head.

He nods in confirmation, “Fill in the pond and mark the site as a reminder of what you’ve accomplished.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Omera nods and stands to collect the empty bowls from the table. “I’ll update everyone and we will get to work.”

He tips his head in a nod and goes to throw his legs over the bench and head to the pond.

“Not you,” Omera’s stern voice halts him like a parent scolding a child for attempting to swim on a full stomach. “You need to rest and recover, lest you pull open your wounds again.”

He sighs as Cara barks a laugh and struts out of the hall.

“I appreciate your concern-” he begins, but backs down with a sigh once he sees the pointed look she gives him. “I’m not…used to this; resting and recovering.”

Her face softens immediately and she smiles, “I know. But you’ve done your time helping us, now let us help you.”

And with that, she has spun on her heel and darted outside before he can fully comprehend her words. He sits dumbfounded on the bench for a moment, wondering what he will possibly do with himself and all this extra time.

A tugging on his cloak causes him to turn and see the Womp Rat behind him, cocking his head and giving a coo that appears much more knowing than any kid had a right to be.

He has a feeling the little one will be keeping his hands full.

* * *

Omera finds him later, lounging under a tree with a horde of children surrounding him. Some are playing tag, some picking flowers, some asking him countless questions. All assuredly driving him insane.

“You’re his dad, right? Do you look like him?”

“I look more like you than him.”

“Why are his ears _soooo_ big?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you have so many weapons?

“It’s my religion.”

“Whoa!... Are you going to live here now?”

Omera approaches with a gentle chuckle, “Why don’t we leave our guest in peace, hmm?” She suggests, giving him an apologetic smile. “That’s probably enough questions for a lifetime.”

He straightens upon seeing her, and she gets the feeling he doesn’t want to be seen as slacking off, even though she had enforced it.

The children grumble but scurry off nonetheless. The child watches them go with a tired chirp then waddles over to sit at his father’s side.

“You were right,” she grins as she kneels down before him. “The cabin was a jackpot. Lots of weaponry and flares like you said. The medical supplies in there were impressive, even bacta! And there was also a pair of com-links, Cara thinks she can rig them for us.”

“That’s good to hear,” he replies, sitting up fully and gathering some small pebbles to set in front of his son.

She smiles wide and reaches forward to stroke one of the child’s ears. He giggles in response and reaches for her when she bops his little nose. She looks back up at his father as the child clings with both hands onto her finger to keep her close.

“We’ve never had communicators before. When we sent Caben and Stoke after you, the whole village was on edge until you returned. We had no way of knowing if they were okay, or had even made it to you.”

He is silent for a time then dips his head to watch the child as he releases her finger in favour of the pebbles. “That must have been hard for you.”

She hums in response, adjusting her position to sit more comfortably. “We need some supplies. We’ve been running low since the last raid but we thought we’d try proposition you first, then worry about restocking. In hindsight, it has paid off.”

He nods his head absently but does not offer any words. She casts her gaze aside to hide the growing smile on her face; it is like pulling teeth to get a response from him. Yet he had given them the greatest gift the night before.

She had spent countless hours into the depth of night, awake and haunted by his beautiful words. She remembered how she had watched as he gave the child his strand to hold while they waited their turn, then tenderly helped the child tie it to the pyre. Here was this man that was so imposing and threatening, but also incredibly gentle and kind.

She had no doubt he was a gentleman.

Everything about him draws her in, to the point where her chest aches thinking of his inevitable departure. Her eyes widen at the thought and she shakes her head to clear her mind, these thoughts were in no way helpful. Because, really, what did they have here that could possibly interest a seasoned traveller like him? A man that had seen so much and all the galaxy had to offer?

Her eyes catch at where the others are collecting shovels and starting to dig out the pond. They were making good progress, but they could not neglect the normal chores involved with a krill farm, otherwise they faced having another wasted harvest. It was going to be a long week.

“Cara is going through everything we salvaged now, then we will start digging out the pond. It will probably only take a week at most if we work hard,” she reports, being optimistic. “After that, I’ll go into town… I actually came by because I was wondering if you would come with me? You or Cara. Either is fine. If you were still planning on being here that is.”

She wants to kick herself. Or have the Sorgan soil swallow her whole. Anything was preferable to her current predicament. She never babbles, she is a grown woman, but in the presence of the bounty hunter she finds herself to be skittish and squirming. Only the stars above know what he must think of her.

“I’ll come,” he cuts off her mental rambling. “I was hoping to lay low with the kid here for a while, if we are still welcome.”

“Of course!” She exclaims, smiling widely. “A week should give you time to heal too, especially if we use the bacta-”

“No,” he cuts her off gently. “I can heal on my own, reserve it for yourselves.”

She puffs out a breath, knowing he will not back down.

“In any case, we will aim to head into town once we’re done here. I would normally take one of our own, but in light of what has happened… we can’t really spare the hands.”

“I wouldn’t be happy with you going on your own, either,” he mutters, and she gets the distinct feeling he may be blushing under the helmet judging by the way he avoids her.

* * *

The evening finds them sitting around the fire, celebrating a hard days’ work in the progress of cleaning up after the battle. Flagons of spotchka are passed around and Cara has made it her sole mission to arm wrestle the population of the small village.

Omera sniggers from where she sits beside the Mandalorian as Cara yet again wins from across the fire, thrusting her half-full cup into the air with a hooting cheer.

“She is a bad influence,” he comments, feeling a bubble of amusement rise in his throat but quickly clamps it down.

Omera smiles wide and takes a sip from her own cup. “Which is precisely what we’ve needed. Too many of us have forgotten what it was like to live. _Really_ live.”

He hums in acknowledgement and glances down at her progress. She had cornered him when the work had been done for the day and dinner was being prepared. She had a keen eye and had noticed the multiple slashes and rips in his few bodysuits, offering, without really giving him the option to decline, to repair them for him.

So, there she sat at his side, needle and thread in hand while she sewed up the evidence of his profession, all the while sipping spotchka. His chest tightens at the domesticity of it, but he decides to allow himself this for now, as it was but a short time of peace in his otherwise nomadic life.

“What is this one from?” she asks as she begins work on a scorched slash, as she has for every tear, hole and pulled thread. And he had offered the information freely, finding himself strangely content.

“Stormtrooper blaster to my pauldron, the ricochet singed my suit,” he reports, though doesn’t feel quite comfortable disclosing what had caused such a fight in this instance. He glances at the kid where he sits with the others. No, he isn’t ready to admit that aloud, only just barely admitting it in the safety of his own head.

“I’m surprised you remember,” she remarks, finishing up with the last repair and inspecting her work. “Although, I have no doubt that your opponent’s gear is in a worse state. You must be a sight to behold in battle. I did get a small glimpse the other night though.”

He can’t help the swell of pride he feels, the smile and gleam in her eye suggest that she is impressed as she looks over at him and folds up his repaired suits.

“I remember every slip in my judgement that results in taking a hit. I was trained to never let an attack land twice.”

He takes the offered suits from her, barely able to distinguish where they had been sewed. He thanks her and she merely gives him a warm smile and settles back into her seat, holding her cup of spotchka close and staring into the flames.

* * *

In the end, it did take a week to finally submerge the mechanical warrior into the pond and bury it with the pain of that night. As the Mandalorian had suggested, they marked the site with a metal panel they had stripped from the walker, the names of their fallen engraved on its surface. The final touch would come once they visited the town to trade for seeds that could be sewn into the soil of the old pond. And in that time, the Mandalorian had consistently tried to get out of his rest and recuperation period, much to everyone's dismay. Nevertheless, he had healed quickly, his limp noticeably reduced and his wounds had not reopened. 

Omera had felt a flurry of butterflies in her stomach all morning as they had agreed to head into town following breakfast. The main town was a few hours away by their rickety speeder, at best. Compounding that with the mountain of goods that would need to be loaded onto it meant they were in for a long ride in solitude.

The reality both excited and unnerved her. She treasures the moments she spends alone with the man, completely captivated by the limited words he gifts her. But at the same time, she is on edge too, self-conscious in a way she hadn’t been in years.

She shakes her head and gathers her breath as she walks into the hall, spotting him in his usual spot with his boy and Cara. Cara sees her first, has a knowing glint in her eye and says something to her companion. Even from across the hall she can see how he straightens, then inclines his head towards her approach.

“Good morning,” he greets once she nears, his gaze following her as she settles onto the bench at Cara’s side. “I’ll get you a bowl,” he says already standing from his place and collecting the child’s bowl too. His son whines as he leaves, watching his back with a pout.

“I’m fine too, by the way,” Cara calls after the hunter as he retreats, the grin on her face all-knowing in a way that makes Omera blush.

Cara pushes her now empty bowl into the middle of the table, and the child shifts his gaze to blink across at her, stretching his short arms across the table to reach for the bowl. His sadness at his father’s absence forgotten for the time being.

“Hang tight, kid, here comes your dad,” she laughs, moving the bowl out of reach and wriggling her fingers towards his clutching hands. As with any potential attention, the child trills and grasps her fingers.

“Don’t encourage him,” the Mandalorian sighs, not without clear affection, and sets a bowl in front of both the child and Omera.

She smiles gratefully up at him, and doesn’t have the heart to mention that she had already eaten early this morning, sleep had evaded her most of the night due to nerves. He tips his head in return and sets up his son to finish his second bowl, trying with little success to coerce him into using a spoon.

“We still on for today?” he asks absently, though the hitch in his voice suggests he may not be as nonchalant as he’s letting on. She’s sure it goes mostly unnoticed by Cara, as the only reason she herself noticed was because she hangs on his every word these days.

“Mmhmm,” she confirms around a mouthful. “We’ll load up the speeder when we’re done here and be on our way. Sorry, It’ll be a long ride I’m afraid.”

He shrugs in response, finally satisfied the child is set enough to not make too much of a mess and sits back. “That’s fine by me. I think the kid knows something is up, he’s been clingy all morning.”

“He is very perceptive for one so young,” she agrees, her heart warming at the tenderness with which he takes in the child, clear even through his helmet.

He turns to her then and lets out an amused breath, “Seems he isn’t the only one.”

Omera cocks her head in confusion, unsure of what he is referring to, until she feels a stirring in the air at her shoulder. She turns and finds Winta there, a prominent frown on her brow and unease in her eyes.

“What’s going on, Mama?” She draws out slowly, stepping closer when Omera turns in her seat towards her. “I saw the speeder by the well.”

“I’m making a trip into town with our nice-guest,” she tells her daughter, reaching up to smooth down a wayward lock of hair on Winta’s head. When her frown deepens, Omera uses her fingers to smooth it out and press a kiss in its place. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Winta looks like she is about to protest, she had been begging to join her mother in town for months, when the man across the table speaks up. “It seems we are in the same boat.”

She glances back and sees the child clinging desperately to his arm, a determined and troubled gaze locked on him with sad, brown eyes. Omera lets out a small breath of a laugh and turns to Winta, squeezing her hands.

“Go finish your breakfast, I’ll come and find you to say goodbye,” she releases her hands and gives Winta a stern look when she opens her mouth.

“Okay,” she sighs in defeat, turning back to the table of children she had come from.

“Perhaps Winta should come too,” he offers when she is out of earshot, turning to look at the child with a death grip on his arm. “I doubt I can tell this one otherwise, anyway.”

Omera watches him for a moment and shoots him a grateful smile, “I have been promising her for a while now… but with the raids… and the marketplace can bring all kinds of characters, even on a remote planet such as this.”

“I’ll protect you both,” he reports firmly. “But I doubt you’ll have any more trouble now.”

Her stomach flips at his words and she fights to keep the blush from crawling up her neck.

“Thank you,” she whispers, hating that her voice sounds so breathless and worrying that she probably sounds like a broken holovid at this point, always saying thank you.

As she finishes her second breakfast of the morning, her stomach straining in response, she feels elated to have Winta and the child coming with them. However, she pushes the picture of the four of them as a family to the furthermost reaches of her mind, for it is a dangerous thought that can surely only lead to heartache.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings continue to develop and deepen, they head into the town with their kids, and the Mandalorian feels an unfamiliar emotion at the attention Omera receives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these two so much! It is getting difficult to have them remain in character as their feelings become more prominent, but I will do my best! Thank you so much for all the positive feedback and kudos, I am completely overwhelmed :)

Omera finally found Winta in their hut, sitting on Omera’s own cot. Relief flooded her once she saw her daughter sitting there, she knew she wouldn’t have gone far, but after all that had happened lately, she was understandably on edge.

“There you are,” she sighs softly, moving to sit beside Winta on the bed and brush her hair back from where it had fallen over her shoulder.

She glances down and sees where her daughter is picking at her sleeves, shoulders hunched in the universal sign of sulking. Omera smiles softly, drawing an arm around her shoulders to pull her into her side, rocking them slowly.

“You don’t want the Mandalorian to see you so upset, do you? He’ll think you don’t want to come with us after all,” she teases lightly, waiting for Winta to comprehend her words.

“But I’m not…” she trails off, then pulls back abruptly to look at her mother in wonder. “Can I come?!”

Omera nods her head to confirm, feeling her own lips stretch into a grin at the way Winta’s face lights up.

“Thank you, Mama!”

“You should thank our guest,” she manages to get out despite the vice grip Winta has around her in a hug. “He is the one who suggested you come and has promised to protect both of us.”

“He is so cool!” She exclaims in response, releasing Omera from her hold and sitting back, eyes wide. “Don’t you think, Mama? He is like the coolest person I know.”

Just as she finishes, there is a telltale glimmer against the far wall; sunlight reflected off his armour as he steps up to the front door. Omera smiles over at him as he approaches with the child in his arms, “He is, isn’t he?” she agrees.

Winta nods vigorously, her excitement barely contained and completely contagious.

“We’re all set to go,” he says, making Winta jump as she had not been aware of his presence. She freezes and her eyes lock onto her mother’s, face reddening at the thought of him hearing her call him cool no doubt.

Omera gives an encouraging smile to Winta and inclines her head towards the man, “What do you say?”

She looks down shyly and turns to face the door, avoiding the hunter’s helmet. She thanks him in the tiniest voice Omera thinks she has ever heard come out of her daughter’s mouth.

He nods and steps further into the hut. Even without Omera seeing his eyes, she knows he is looking at her, “I do have a job for you in return, though.”

Omera cocks her head with an intrigued smile and watches as her daughter slowly looks up as he kneels to her height.

“Do you think you could be in charge of the kid? He has been upset ever since you left before,” he passes his son over to Winta, the child stretching his arms out and chirping when she reaches for him as well.

The look on her face is pure pride as she straightens her back and holds the child tight, giving one affirmative nod.

“Thank you, you’re doing me a great favour,” he offers, standing to his full height again as Omera makes her way over to them. She knows he has only done this for Winta’s benefit, and the notion warms her heart.

“No problem!” She beams. “What else can I do?”

He mentions that the villagers are just finishing loading up the speeder, but she should oversee their final preparations and make sure there is a comfy spot for them all to sit. She grins up at Omera, practically glowing, and rushes off to do just that, the child tucked securely into her arms. And suddenly it is just her and the Mandalorian alone in her hut, her heart thumps in her chest so loud it is all she can hear.

“That was very kind of you,” she says softly by way of distracting herself away from the situation. “She’ll be beaming for days.”

“She’s a good kid,” he replies without pause, not moving from his spot as she approaches until they are face to face, or helmet, and closer than strictly necessary. She counters with a humble smile and looks to her feet, finding herself unable to meet his visored gaze.

He fidgets in his stance, moving to rest his hand on the blaster at his hip which she suspects is probably a nervous habit. She wonders if he feels the same pull to her that she does to him, he appears slightly on edge, so she hopes that is the case.

“We should head off,” he murmurs, clearing his throat, but still does not make to leave. If anything, it seems as though he rocks forward on his feet a little towards her.

She is instantly breathless and entirely embarrassed, sure she is reading way too much into this. She steels her spine, tips her face up towards him in a friendly smile, “Okay.”

Before she can really register what she is doing, she reaches forward and gives his arm a firm squeeze between his pauldron and vambrace as she brushes past him out the door. As soon as her back is to him she walks quickly to the awaiting speeder, heat prickling up and down her spine as she internally scolds herself.

 _‘What is_ wrong _with me?!’_

She had always been such a confident woman, much less felt any of these emotions since she was an adolescent.

She just hopes that he is as cold as a bounty hunter ought to be and doesn’t recognise her actions for what they truly are. But she knows that deep down that is exactly the kind of person he isn’t, he has proven that time and again, and there was surely no fooling him.

Despite her internal ramblings, her mind cannot forget the brief contact they just had. It was the first time she had touched him. He had put a reassuring hand on her shoulder last week when he discussed how he’d tend to his wounds, but that contact had been so brief and she’d been too distraught to treasure the feeling. This time, however, her mind was clear and she had felt strong muscle under her hand despite the padding and rough fabric of his bodysuit. The memory of that alone will surely weigh on her mind for some time.

She shakes her head of her thoughts and reaches the speeder. Hopefully, her silly infatuation will settle down soon, as it is getting almost impossible to bear knowing that they have no possible future.

* * *

He feels his lips twitch in an unfamiliar way as he watches the kid and Winta; her talking animatedly to the little one and his returning coos of conversation. He thinks maybe it is a smile.

Omera sits at his side, legs drawn underneath herself and hair falling over her shoulder as she focusses on some woven threads with a curved tool. He almost feels his arm reach out to brush her hair back so that he might look at the concentration on her face, but it settles on the crate at his other side instead.

Winta had done her job well, and while he was sure the speeder was loaded up to a capacity that was bordering on too much, she had managed to create a small area for them all to sit. A thick blanket was spread out underneath them with a few others stacked to the side if needed. There was a small basket of bread and a leather pouch was filled with cool water that they had been sharing.

He had watched with a strange fascination as Omera had tipped the water into her mouth, a small stream overflowing and following the line of her throat as it worked in a swallow. His own mouth suddenly felt unbearably dry.

She had let out a shy laugh and smile as she wiped her mouth and offered the pouch to him. It only took her a split second to lower the offering though, and her brows scrunched in sympathy. In that moment, he felt he would have given almost anything to touch his lips to where she just had. Instead, he had just waved her off gently and averted his gaze, clearing his throat at the way he had just been ogling her. In front of her own daughter, no less.

That had been in the first hour of their journey when small talk had been exchanged and the kids were still overly excited at the prospect of a road trip.

Gradually their excitement dies down, and even Winta’s previously insistent chatter is now broken by yawns. When the kid’s eyes can no longer stay open, Winta tucks one of the spare blankets around him and snuggles the both of them into the remaining pile. Omera abandons her work for a moment, reaching forward and pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, and a gentle stroke to the kid’s. Winta smiles sleepily in return, eyes flickering towards him and her smile turns shy. When he tilts his head in response, her smile widens, and she closes her eyes briefly before her breathing evens out in sleep. He wishes only he could drift off like a child again, where sleep comes easy and is not plagued with loss.

Omera settles back beside him with a humorous sigh, “It doesn’t take much, does it?”

The smile she sends him is loving, and he knows this woman was born to be a mother. Loving unconditionally and all-encompassing.

He hums in return, watching as the kid instinctively turns inwards towards Winta in his sleep. The sight causes a lump to form in his throat, wondering if the kid had ever had a family, and feeling inexplicably guilty knowing that he is eventually going to take that away from him. They can’t stay here indefinitely, even if he wanted to. He removes his gaze, hoping the pain will go with it and turns to where Omera is doing the finishing touches on her current project.

“What is that?”

“A charm. It has been passed down in the generations of our village,” she responds, holding the finished piece up so the hanging tendrils float in the light breeze. “We weave them for good fortune and protection. Some to ward off nightmares. It’s just a tradition really, but we sell a few at the markets."

She passes it to him to inspect, putting the tool and excess threads away. It fits easily in his palm and is a column of intricate knots and braids, varying shades of luminescent blue. A loop at the top allows it to be hung with braided tassels moving freely at the bottom.

“These woven pieces signify the bonds of family,” she explains, running her finger along the outermost designs, then points to the elaborate tangle of threads in the centre. “And this is the soul, forever protected.”

He listens to her soft voice as if in a trance, yet still acutely aware of her close proximity as she’s shuffled closer to explain. A lock of hair has fallen back over her shoulder and the ends brush against his forearm gently. Even through his heavy armour and gear, he swears he can feel the tickling whisper of the lengths.

“It’s pretty… I know it’s not…” she begins awkwardly as she sits back, and he gets the feeling she is grasping for words. He had probably taken too long to respond, and she got embarrassed, though she didn’t know that he was just wholly distracted by her presence.

“It’s nice,” he finally manages to say, running his thumb over the areas she had indicated and passing it back to her. “Your village is so rich in culture and tradition. So much of that has been lost elsewhere.”

Her eyes dart around his helmet as if she is trying to see through it, and a small smile spreads onto her lips. He has always felt confident that the beskar would hold up to any attack and made him impenetrable, but the way she often looked at him shot that theory well and truly out of the water. He felt raw and exposed, but there was a part of him that thought maybe he didn’t mind, if it meant she could get closer. It is as if that brief squeeze of his bicep before had opened the floodgates and now they gravitated towards touching each other, even in the most incidental way.

The rest of the trip remains mostly uneventful and he feels comfortable with both their idle chatter and silence. The kid and Winta remain asleep, stirring when there is the occasional jarring jolt, but drift back into an easy sleep soon after.

Eventually the smell of wood fire, cooking and exotic spices fill the air as the trees thin out and a bustling township comes into view. The energy Omera radiates at the sight is infectious and she moves to gently stroke her daughter’s forehead, “Wake up, Winta, we’re here.”

Winta’s eyes blink open and she looks around blearily for a second before her eyes snap wide open in excitement. She nudges the kid awake gently and sits up straight, head whipping this way and that to get her bearings.

The kid’s excitement grows too as they near the town, his nose thrust into the air and inhaling deeply before giving off a curious babble. He waddles over to the Mandalorian and climbs haphazardly onto his knee to get a better look at the town from his new vantage point.

“You alright there, Womp Rat?” he mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. The kid hadn’t been with him very long, but already had such trust in him, so much so that he climbed all over him without fear. He lets out a long sigh and picks the kid up, balancing him on his shoulder to get an even better look. He squeals in response, thumping his small hand on his helmet in excitement as his ears flap in the wind. He can just see Omera watching them out of his periphery and does his utmost best to act as if he hasn’t noticed. It is as if the kid has made it his mission to embarrass him.

The town is a long strip of a clearing in the trees with various huts and tents lining either side. People are congregating around, looking at wares and enjoying the sun while they sit at benches to eat.

When the speeder comes to a stop, he grabs a hold of the kid and swings himself off the platform. Winta approaches the edge of the speeder with trepidation as she gets down on her knees and makes to disembark. She loses her footing just as she touches the ground, and he instinctively reaches out to steady her.

“Whoa!” She exclaims and looks up at him, mouth still open wide, though there is a glimmer of laughter in her eyes as she regards him.

He tips his head at her and removes his hand as she dances off to collect the kid. Without thinking, he turns to offer his hand to Omera as she nears the edge, and she takes it firmly to jump down. There is a brief moment once she has landed when neither of them let go, but then she gives his hand a quick squeeze and with a smile she is off, heading to where Winta stands with the kid looking around in wonder. She instructs Winta to stay with the speeder for the time being and then gestures for him to follow her into the closest hut.

The hut is small but abundantly full, small tables displaying an overflowing amount of food and goods. A bell above the entrance chimes as they enter and a man nudges his way through a curtained door at the back, arms full of a large box. He is yelling in an unfamiliar language to another person out the back when his eyes catch them, and he dumps the box on a nearby bench.

“Omera!” He calls joyously, throwing his arms wide. “It has been too long.”

The Mandalorian snaps his eyes back to her as she steps forward with a smile just as broad as the man’s, “Hello, Garren. Sorry we’re a little late with this order.”

“Ah, not to worry, love,” he smiles and steps closer, closer than needed. “I’m just glad to see your beautiful face.”

The Mandalorian takes half a step forward in response and his hand twitches to the blaster at his hip. However, he drops his hand almost immediately after, wondering where the reaction had come from, and confronted by his own actions. This man had shown no ill intent, and Omera seemed at ease in his company, yet his stomach had churned watching them. He instantly hates this man, a notion that strikes him cold. He doesn’t think he has cared enough to hate someone in a very long time.

“And you’ve brought some muscle?” The man asks, his smile unfaltering as he turns his attention away from Omera.

“Oh, no, this is a friend,” she explains, and he tries to not let the way his chest puffs out at her compliment show.

“Sorry, friend,” Garren steps forward and offers his hand and an apologetic smile. “We don’t see much armour around here, so I just assumed. I’m Garren, loyal seller of this lovely lady’s brew.”

He shakes Garren’s hand and bristles at the look the man sends Omera.

This man is nice, but he still hates him.

Garren hands his payment over to Omera, then calls out the back again for help unloading. The Mandalorian helps too, despite Omera’s protest, but he does so anyway, wanting to leave the other man behind as soon as possible. Once the transfer is all done, Omera thanks Garren for his business, to which he wraps an arm around her shoulders and gives a quick squeeze before releasing her.

“He can be quite chatty,” she explains once they finally exit his tent for the last time, heading over to where Winta is looking at the jewellery stall directly across from them. “And touchy. But he’s a nice man.”

He hums in agreement, hoping that Omera hadn’t noticed his less than friendly reaction to the man and was trying to reassure him. Thankfully there are no other good-looking men vying for Omera’s attention, though she certainly draws many eyes as they wander the stalls.

Omera directs them to a couple of different stalls, selling the krill oils and dyes produced in the village as well as a basket of the charms she had been finishing off on the ride. Once the speeder is emptied of all their goods, Omera counts their earnings and suggests they catch a late lunch, the sun well past noon. As they walk, he is impressed that Winta has been so well behaved. She never complained about being hungry or bored, just followed along quietly, eyes wide and incredulous as she took in everything with a child’s wonder. Omera must be immensely proud of her daughter, she would surely grow into a fine young woman just like her mother.

They turn down a dirt track that looks vaguely familiar and then a large cantina comes into view that he recognises instantly.

“I’ve been here. When we first landed this is where we stopped so the kid could eat,” he reports, a half-laugh escaping him at the memory. “I tried to bribe a woman for information on Cara, but I don’t think she understood.”

Omera’s face nearly splits in two with a grin and she lets out a laugh, “I can imagine.”

“Then Cara kicked my ass,” he continues, wanting to hear more of her laugh, and he is not disappointed. "Not the fondest of memories in this establishment.”

She is still laughing as they find a table and sit down. Thankfully it is a different serving lady that approaches them and takes their order. Omera’s brows furrow in worry when he declines to order anything, and he reassures her that he is fine and will eat later. In response, she orders double and asks for it to be packed for him, a triumphant smile on her face.

He watches as they eat, lulled by the constant stream of gushing from Winta and knowing smile Omera sends him as she encourages her daughter further. He focusses on helping the kid eat so that Winta can enjoy her own meal now that she’s finished detailing all the cool things she’s seen today. As they finish up their food they make a plan of what they need to buy with their earnings before making the long trip home. It is then that he realises his ship is not far from there, and he had been wanting to check in on it.

“I should have realised it earlier, but we aren’t too far from where I’ve left my ship. I would like to get some things from it but I’m aware we are running out of daylight,” he discusses, glancing outside where the sun is hanging even lower in the sky. “If you don’t mind, we could go there for the night and travel back at first light.”

He had travelled through the night to get to the village that first night but was very reluctant to do it with Omera and Winta onboard.

Omera deliberates for a moment, Winta bouncing in her seat at her side and basically pleading with her eyes. Even the kid seems invested too, judging by the way he watches Omera with his big eyes.

“If you don’t mind having us on your ship, that would be perfect. I can com Cara now.”

“Yes!” Winta declares in triumph. “It’ll be like a sleepover, but on your cool ship! This is the best!”

Omera chuckles at her daughter, smoothing down her hair and retrieving the com-link.

Once they’ve informed Cara and finished their meals, Omera digs in her pouch to pay and collects the packed meal for him. They stop by another few places to collect the supplies the village needs; medical supplies, a few tools he is unfamiliar with, and a box of the strange cactus soap, and then make their way back to the speeder as all the stalls begin to close for the evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding on the Razor Crest, more celebrations, but happiness can be shattered so easily!

The trip to the Razor Crest is much quicker than when he had done it on foot, at a painstakingly slow pace as the kid had toddled behind him. The speeder also moves much quicker now that it is mostly empty aside from their weight. He is relieved to be able to make the stop, after what had happened on Arvala-7 with the Jawas, he is apprehensive about leaving the ship for too long.

As it comes into view, he becomes apprehensive for another reason entirely. He was proud of the Razor Crest, but it was old, and no luxury starship, though he knew Omera wouldn’t think anything of it. It was clean and secure, and there was something to be said of that in these times.

“Whoa! Is that your starship?” Winta asks incredulously, scurrying to the front of the speeder to get a closer look as they draw nearer. “It’s ginormous!”

Well, that wasn’t the reaction he normally got.

Winta’s eyes inspect it in wonder as she leaps from the speeder before it has even come to a complete stop. She skids a little on the landing but quickly corrects herself with flailing arms and is sprinting towards the hatch. By the time Omera and himself have climbed down from the speeder and lifted the kid too, she is practically jumping on the spot, brimming with anticipation.

“Open the door, open the door, open the door!” She chants, cheeks flushed and hair a mess.

“Winta,” her mother warns, though the laugh in her voice contradicts her stern look and Winta’s jumping tones down to mere bobbing on her heels.

“Sorry,” she gives her mother a coy look then turns her attention to him. “Open the door, _please_.”

He glances at Omera and she shakes her head slightly with a laugh, looking apologetic and long-suffering. He shrugs and hopes she understands that as him saying ‘ _It’s fine_ ,’ and presses the command on his vambrace to open the hatch.

He inclines his head to the ramp when Winta looks to him. She doesn’t hesitate to take that as an invitation and sprints up into the hull.

“It’s safe,” he assures Omera as they follow behind at a normal pace, not wanting her to think him irresponsible. “Everything is locked away.”

“I never had any doubt,” she smiles, nudging his shoulder with her own and giving him the urge to reach out and steady her against him.

He wonders if he should nudge her back, is that the appropriate thing to do? But then she is walking ahead of him and stepping up to the ramp. The moment is gone, and he sighs down to the kid at his feet, looking up at him in curiosity. He seemed to be missing these opportunities a lot.

Inside, Winta is running from side to side, inspecting new details of the Razor Crest, then careening back to ones she’s already seen. And while Omera does not share quite her enthusiasm, her eyes are bright with intrigue as she examines with her gaze what Winta does with gentle fingers.

He feels his head may swell too big inside his helmet, and he wonders when he became one of those egotistical men that thinks they’re some ‘big man’ because of the size of their ship. The effect of having her in his ship is a strange but welcome sensation.

Omera turns to him then and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, fidgeting with them at his belt then eventually letting them settle at his sides.

“You must be hungry,” she says softly, indicating the packed meal in her hands. “You should eat something.”

“If you are alright for a bit, I’m going to wash up and change my suit,” he explains, and she gives a pointed and insistent look. “… and then I’ll eat.”

She merely continues to look at him unconvinced, and he wants to laugh at her determination, it is truly relentless. “I promise.” He adds, unused to someone caring so much about whether he eats or not, but liking the feeling nonetheless.

It is as if a switch is flipped and she smiles brightly, looking around until her eyes lock on the refresher.

“We will wait outside then, so you have the place to yourself, the sun is only just setting,” she offers, already moving to lead Winta out.

“It’s alright,” he replies, and indicates to the ladder at the far end of the hull and picks the kid up. “The cockpit is just up there. Winta will probably be occupied for a while, just watch this one with the controls. He has a tendency to eat them.”

She chuckles lightly in response and they follow him to the ladder. He climbs up first and sets the automatic door to open, then turns back to lift Winta and the kid up from the rungs. Omera takes the rear and he offers a hand lightly to help her stand. She smiles her thanks and then is entirely captivated by all the controls and equipment. The Mandalorian again clamps down on his egotistical thoughts of before. He makes sure they are settled before leaving them to it and jumping back down into the hull.

As he is collecting a new suit and heading to shower, he sees where Omera has left the parcel of food for him and his stomach grumbles.

That was new, Sorgan was making him soft. He had gone countless days without food before.

He quickly goes through the processes of removing his armour and gear and steps under the stream of water. While he had washed at the village often, he had never appreciated the shower in his ship more. Though as he uses the soap in the dispenser, he finds he misses the tingling associated with the cactus soap he has become accustomed to.

He shuts off the water and dresses again as quickly as he can, not wanting to leave them for too long. He walks over to the crate where his meal waits and turns to the comm unit on the wall. He informs them he is just finishing up and won’t be long.

He can hear fumbling footsteps from above, then static fills the hull and he can hear Winta’s excited breaths and whispers as she clearly tries to cover the microphone. There is a chorus of quiet murmurs, he is almost sure he hears Winta asking ‘ _how do I say it?_ ’ and then he thinks he can pick up Omera’s voice too.

“Roger that!” Winta finally confirms, the pride in her voice clear and the static shuts off.

He actually laughs at that, quiet, but a laugh no less.

He scoffs the food, a platter of bread, cheeses and dried meat, then puts his helmet back on and climbs the ladder.

The door shifts open and he sees Winta freeze where she sits in the pilot seat, knees pulled under herself and hand resting on the hyperdrive gauge. She swivels around in the chair and stands sheepishly, then seems to realise she is still wearing the comm microphone and earpiece. She quickly rips that off too and sets it to the side.

He now notices Omera, sitting in the other seat and cradling the kid as he sleeps peacefully. She grins up at him at her daughter’s antics.

“You’re a natural,” he directs at Winta and walks over to where she still stands unable to look into his helmet.

He turns the seat in offering and gestures for her to sit when she hesitates. That only lasts for a few seconds because then she launches back into the seat and listens with undivided attention as he explains all the controls.

He gets carried away with his lesson but notices as Winta’s eyes start to glaze over and knows that is probably enough for today. He sets the Razor Crest for ground security protocol, probably overkill on the current planet, and they all make their way back down into the hull at the suggestion of playing cards, the kid now awake and bobbing happily in Omera’s arms.

So they find themselves sitting on his bunk in a semi-circle, playing cards and chatting about their adventures of the day. The conversation somehow circles around to discussing the HoloNet, something Winta had never witnessed but was instantly fascinated by. He retrieves the holocaster from the shelf above his bunk and sets it on the linens in front of them. He adjusts his position to lounge back against the wall and Omera sits cross-legged at his side with Winta in her lap. The kid plays musical chairs and shuffles between sitting with Winta, perching by himself, then eventually curling up against the Mandalorian’s side as his eyes become heavy.

They sit like that, watching but not really paying attention, Winta is just engrossed in the display of pictures and not really needing anything beyond that. They chat quietly throughout about everything and anything.

“How do you sleep in your armour?” Omera asks quietly, moving her position to stretch her legs out and adjusting Winta too.

“I’ve gotten used to it; the beskar is like a second skin. I am comfortable in it,” he replies quietly, not wanting to wake the sleeping kid at his side.

Omera hums in response and they continue on in silence, but he can see her eyes closing for longer than needed in a blink, and Winta is the same.

Eventually he sees that they are unable to stay awake any longer, not even noticing as he reaches forward to shut off the holocaster. He gently picks the kid up and moves him to the little hatch near the ladder, padding it out with a blanket and placing the sleeping kid in for the night.

Omera and Winta are still as they were when he got up, not having moved an inch, but he knows Omera’s neck will kink if she sleeps with her head leaning against the wall at that awkward angle. He wills his hands to not shake as he gently reaches behind her neck and shoulders to ease her down onto the pillow at the head of the bed. She stirs as he uses his other arm to twist her legs around and then place a blanket over her and Winta.

“Thank you,” she whispers sweetly and looks down into Winta’s still face as she strokes her forehead. “Sorry to steal your bed. Where will you sleep?”

“I’m used to sleeping in the chair anyway,” he quickly grunts out and turns, afraid she will offer to share. And even more afraid that he will accept. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she calls after him softly then settles down to sleep.

...

It is as if nothing has changed the next morning, Omera awakens and begins up the ladder, announcing her arrival before entering the cockpit just encase he had taken his helmet off. They exchange small talk while the kids begin to wake too, then they are all loaded up and embarking on the long trip back to the village.

...

The filled krill pond was planted with wildflowers upon their return from town, and the seeds have begun to germinate, small up sprouts of green from the soil that will soon be a field of colour. He had suggested they attach one of their woven charms to the durasteel marking, and Omera had done so with the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

That night, she had brought him a charm of his own and told him how she had hoped it would protect his dreams. He had thought it was perhaps unwise to disclose that the only thing haunting his dreams currently is her and the absent touches she distils upon him.

Another week passes and he finds himself getting more accustomed to this lifestyle. He and Cara help out where they are able, but they are not krill farmers and are put to better use in the form of perimeter checks and the occasional construction.

A feast is held one night, to mark one turn of the moon since the Mandalorian and Cara had arrived in the village. He thinks the meals they have had each day are the best he has ever had, but this night it had been particularly lavish, and he wonders again if the beskar might get too tight soon. The brew of spotchka was particularly potent too.

After the meal they had all flocked around a central fire as has been commonplace in celebration since he had arrived at the village.

Eventually Winta approaches their spot by the fire, a groggy looking kid in her arms, “Sorry, he kept fussing and wanting to come over.”

She passes the bundle of blankets to him with an embarrassed look on her face, avoiding his visor.

“Thank you for looking after him, he just gets tired easily. He’ll be himself again tomorrow morning,” he tries to reassure her. It seems to work as her face lights up and she spins on her heel to return to the other kids, but not before Omera tells her she has five more minutes before bedtime.

The kid makes a warbling sound from his cocoon as he settles him against his chestplate. The Mandalorian suddenly feels conflicted. He wants to stay up, sitting with Omera, but worries she may think of him as an inadequate guardian for not putting the kid straight to sleep. Before he has time to really contemplate his options, the kid’s soft snores indicate he has drifted off, and the Mandalorian looks down at the little one astounded.

“He loves you,” she murmurs softly, leaning closer to look down into his small face with a warm smile on her lips.

He restrains the scoff he feels bubbling up his throat, “I doubt it, I wouldn’t know why.”

She chuckles softly and sits back, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “He feels protected… and safe,” she explains.

He considers that for a moment and hums in thought as he remembers when he was taken in, “It’s the armour. He probably would with any Mandalorian.”

She looks unconvinced, smiling as she slowly shakes her head.

“I don’t think so,” she draws out slowly, her smile deepening to a knowing smirk. “It’s your mannerisms and tone. I bet he’d be able to pick you out. He probably has a picture in his mind of what you look like.”

He contemplates her words, looking down into the sleeping face of the kid, one ear bent flat against the beskar and his little claws hooked over the edge of his chestplate.

“I know _I_ do,” she confesses, and he snaps his head in her direction, noticing there is a flush to her cheeks to suggest maybe she’s had a few too many cups of spotchka.

He watches her as she stares back unabashedly, her head cocked to the side and her cup resting against her lips, “Do you want to know?”

 _‘Does he want to know?!’_ He thinks incredulously.

He thinks in that moment that there is little he wants to know more. She had been right that first night when she said she got chatty when she’d had a drink, but he would never have imagined this. He is not so inexperienced in the ways of the world that he doesn’t know flirting when he sees it, in fact he had had his fair share of women showing interest. But he knew that was more to do with the status of him being Mandalorian than anything else. That was not the case with Omera; he was confident that his creed had little impact on her view of him, so it must be the particularly strong brew of spotchka talking.

And despite himself and his respect for the woman, he can’t help but to encourage it. So he gives a curt nod, fearing that again he may have waited too long to confirm as has been infuriatingly common these days. Perhaps the spotchka he had earlier in the barn was also giving him confidence.

“Will you tell me if I’m right?” She teases, sitting up straight and rebuffing his previous concerns.

“Yes,” he nods after a brief pause, deliberating if that was wise and deciding he _wanted_ her to know his looks without actually seeing.

Her responding smile is radiant and she sits back, clapping her hands around her cup as she looks up in thought.

“Well, I heard you talking to the children the other week, so I know you look like us. And I know you're tall…” she trails off, thoroughly enjoying herself judging by the look on her face. “Dark hair?”

His lips twitch under his helmet in a smile and he tips his head in a nod, “Hmm, brown. Not as dark as yours.”

She grins back, pleased with herself, and absently brushes her hair over one shoulder, “Okay, and eyes?... Green?”

He hesitates at that; did she want them to be green? Was that what she found attractive? Should he lie?

“No. Brown too.”

Boring, he thinks. But then, looking at her, with brown hair and brown eyes, he had never seen anything more captivating. How in the sunlight the strands of her hair and the flecks in her eyes radiated warmth, and in the moonlight they were deep and alluring.

“My mind knows you to be handsome,” she whispers and watches him over her cup as she takes a sip.

He nearly chokes on saliva from startling, his eyes darting from her face quickly to make sure he hasn’t woken the kid with the violent jolt, “You don’t know that.”

She giggles at his reaction, giggles! He has never heard it before but thinks he needs to find a way to make her always do that.

“…No,” she agrees, nodding her head but continuing before he can feel deflated. “But someone can be handsome beyond good looks. A personality is equally as attractive…”

And suddenly her confidence wanes and she looks embarrassed, shaking her head and putting her half-empty cup out of reach. He continues to stare at her, heart beating erratically at all she had confessed this evening.

She groans and puts her head in her hands, “Stars, I want to see your face! Again, it’s very nerve-wracking not seeing your expressions.”

He feels as though he has to give her something, just to let her know he appreciates her honesty and doesn’t want her to regret this conversation, “I am mostly smiling when we are together, and when you’re talking.”

It’s not a lie, the past few days have been the most he has smiled, even though it is probably a poor example of a smile, he was wholly unused to the expression.

His confession does the trick and her regretful embarrassment from before makes way for a shy blush as she avoids his gaze but cannot hide her wide smile, “I imagine you have a smile that would make women weak.”

He stares at her again, unsure how to respond and feeling his face getting exceptionally warm at the compliment.

“And now?” She shyly whispers.

He clears his throat as he doesn’t trust his voice at that moment to come out strong and sure, “Probably as red as you are… I want you to see my face. I have never questioned the Way. Ever since putting the helmet on I have never felt the need… or met someone that made me want to…” he trails off, unable to finish his sentence. He wonders if she knows what he was going to say anyway because there is a knowing glint in her shy smile, and he notices that when she adjusts her position, she shuffles the tiniest bit closer.

“Wait!” She startles, the moment broken as she sits bolt upright. “Will you tell me how old you are? I have this picture in my mind and I never thought about it until now but I could be way off. You just seem so mature in your demeanour and voice.”

He takes a moment to contemplate before responding and lets out a sigh.

“I’m not sure. I stopped counting when I was taken in. I think I must be somewhere in my thirties. I suppose I could be early forties even,” he drifts off in thought but then suddenly regrets his words. Surely she must be in her early thirties, and he is shocked to acknowledge that he doesn’t want her to think of him as too old, so he quickly corrects himself. “But I doubt it.”

She smiles and lets out a sigh that sounds very close to comfort, “Well that’s a relief! I’d be horrified if you ended up being a twenty-something year old.”

He lets himself entertain the idea that she is relieved because she too doesn’t want to be too old for him. Surely there was no harm in wishful thinking.

...

The next morning he realises that yes, there is much harm in wishful thinking. They had eventually called it a night not long after the discussion of age, when the rest of the villagers had already retreated into their huts for the night. His dreams had been flooded with visions of a future he could never have with her. The ache in his chest makes his run-in with the mudhorn seem insignificant. To top it off, he had known Omera was potentially drunk but had egged her on anyway. He groans as he sits up and puts his helmeted head in his hands, his head feels a little foggy too so maybe he had been a little drunker than he realised. He also acknowledges that it would probably be too good to be true if Omera didn’t remember the events of the previous night. She had been so inviting though, not to mention intoxicating, and he thinks maybe the pain has been worth it if he can carry that memory with him.

So no, he wouldn’t take it back, but he must leave, or she will surely chip away at the beskar until there is no hope of existing without her.

He had been nervous to face her all morning, unwarranted in hindsight, as she was too much of a gracious host to make him feel uncomfortable. She had spoken to him, not as if last night hadn’t happened, but more that it changed nothing between them. Though she did look like she was nursing a hangover, to which Cara was decidedly unsympathetic, laughing and hooting beyond even her regular behaviour.

* * *

By early afternoon, with most of the morning being a write-off for everyone, Omera finds herself in much better spirits, her splitting headache and nausea having finally subsided. She hadn’t even realised how much she’d drunk the night before, getting lost in her conversation with the Mandalorian.

She remembers the fool she had made of herself last night, and he had seemed a bit more reserved and timider come morning. Rather than being frustrated with herself at her actions, she chose to embrace the outcomes of the night before and the insight it had given into their guest.

The day had been mildly productive in all regards and she finds herself fixing Cara a drink on the porch of her hut as they enjoy the afternoon sun for a quick break. She turns and takes in the Mandalorian’s relaxed stance as he leans against the side of the hut, though when she steps towards him, he fidgets very slightly in his position.

“Can I set you something in the house?”

“No, thank you,” he declines, ever polite, as he turns to her and she wonders if he is remembering what had happened last night and thinking better of the offer. “Maybe later.”

She smiles in return and glances to where his gaze had been captured before her approach. His son had thoroughly repulsed the other children as he tried to eat a frog previously. But now he perches beside Winta, the centre of attention.

“He’s very happy here,” she observes with a gentle laugh. He agrees with her instantly, and she turns to give him a final look before moving to step down from the porch. “Fits right in.”

She makes her way over to the circle of children, feeling his heavy gaze on her back all the while. She hopes he read between the lines to where she was desperately trying to make him see that he too could have a home here. She can hear Cara and him having a low conversation, but cannot pick up the words, only that Cara’s lilting tone seems to be teasing him. She acutely remembers that tone in Cara’s voice when she had given a suggestive waggle of her brows when asking how the night on his ship went. She banishes the thought from her head, not wanting to eavesdrop, and settles into the space the children have made for her in their circle, all excitedly talking about the frog that had just escaped. They are all giggling uncontrollably, flicking krill at the child as he squeals and is so excited he doesn’t know where to turn, his little arms waving frantically.

...

She is kneeling at a krill pond edge repairing a basket when he finds her later, asking if he can have a word.

His silhouette blocks out most of the sun as she looks up at him with a smile, “Of course.”

She stands and brushes her hands off on her apron before following him as he leads them further from the other workers. She watches him walk, cloak sweeping behind him and can’t help the flutter in her stomach, this is the first time since last night that he has sought her out, let alone spoken to her privately.

Once satisfied they are out of earshot, he turns to her, even steps a little closer when she too stops.

“It’s very nice here,” he says, motioning his arm to their surroundings vaguely. She nods enthusiastically in response, swelling with pride that a man that has seen the vast reaches of the galaxy, can appreciate their humble home.

“I think it’s clear he’s… he’s happy here.”

She swallows thickly at that, eyes darting around his helmet to try to decipher what is underneath, “What about you?”

“Me?” He responds, seemingly taken aback that someone would consider his happiness. The thought makes her heart clench.

“Are _you_ happy here?” She asks, and the way he hesitates further makes her sombre. She figures she might as well say her piece now. “We want you to stay, the community is grateful. You can pack all this away, encase there is ever trouble.”

He is deathly still as she indicates to his armour, and she hopes it is because he is considering it, “You and your boy could have a good life. He could be a child for a while, wouldn’t that be nice?”

He shifts his visored gaze beyond her shoulder, where she knows their children are sitting. And when he looks back at her, the intensity in his gaze is clear even through the helmet, “It would.”

His voice breaks on the words, and it would break her heart too if it wasn’t for the sheer joy she feels at the admission. On the inside, she wants to smile so wide her cheeks will hurt, but her heart races and she allows a small twitch of a smile as her hands slowly reach up as if of their own accord. Her stomach coils even tighter as she rests her hands on either side of his helmet as they shake, and he doesn’t so much as flinch. She likes to imagine he has never allowed anyone else so close. The metal is cool under her clammy palms, and she ever so slightly shifts the helmet up.

He lets her, for a time, but then gently grasps her wrists, and she lets him lower her hands. He doesn’t let go of her wrists, merely holds them near his chest and she feels she cannot get enough air into her lungs. She had been silly to think this could ever be.

“I don’t belong here,” he utters softly, and she resists the urge to disagree and plead. “But he does.”

This is too much to bear, she knows what he doesn’t say. At this point their arms have retracted to their sides and she forces herself to take a calming breath.

“I understand,” she whispers gently, looking down to gather her courage and then giving a sad smile, hoping he understands that he will always have a place here. “I will look after him as one of my own.”

He doesn’t respond, continues to stare at her and leans forward as if he too cannot quite control the pull towards each other. Then suddenly a shot shatters the atmosphere, the broken shards of her heart jumping, and she fears the raiders have returned after all.

The Mandalorian reacts with lightning-fast reflexes, putting a firm hand on her shoulder to push her behind him and spinning around towards the tree line quickly, blaster already drawn and aiming.

“Go get the kids!” He calls as she is already turning, and he rushes off to where birds are flocking from the woods.

She sprints to where all the village has scurried into the hall, eyes wild as she tries to spot his boy and her own daughter. She finally sees them, huddled under a table in the far corner and she rushes over. Instantly, Winta is clambering out from under the table and to her lap, the Mandalorian’s son tight in her grip but craning his neck to see where his father is.

“Hush,” Omera whispers, gathering them in her arms and stroking Winta’s head. “We’re okay. The Mandalorian will protect us.”

The child makes a nervous warble, twisting his little claws into her apron and looking to her desperately.

“Don’t worry, little one, your father is very strong,” she tries to reassure him and continues to hold the both of them as her erratic heart returns to a normal rhythm.

She feels his son suddenly fidget where he is pressed between Winta and herself mere seconds before the Mandalorian is skidding to a stop at their side. He places a hand on her shoulder and Winta’s while he inspects the three of them for injuries, “Are you alright?”

She nods her head quickly, loosening her grip on her daughter so the child between them is free to launch himself at his father. She looks to him in question, and the way he hesitates makes her fear the worst.

“It wasn’t the Klatooinians,” he murmurs, and she is relieved, but cannot understand why he seems so dejected. “Another bounty hunter… he was after the kid. Cara got him first.”

And everything suddenly makes sense. His insistence on finding lodging in the middle of nowhere, his run-in with Cara, and his wish to lay low for a while.

His son was being hunted.

A saddened whimper escapes her before she can contain it and she reaches to squeeze his arm as she had done before, between the pauldron and vambrace. No words can hope to lift the burden he must be feeling, to have a child in danger, but she does know what this means for them.

...

He leaves shortly thereafter, loading his belongings onto the speeder as his son watches, ears drawn down nearly completely, his little face upset. She doesn’t even really hear the words exchanged between Cara and the man as her heart stutters and Winta is gripping her arm in a vice. These past few weeks had been beyond words, but she remembers telling herself back in those early days, the dangers of entertaining the idea of a future with him.

As soon as Cara steps aside, Winta rushes towards the child and she steps in front of the man. She lets out a breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding and takes him in with her eyes, trying to imprint him in her memory, though she doubts she will ever forget him.

“Thank you,” she speaks softly, trying to convey all she can’t say as she looks into his visor.

He tips his head down in a nod and seems to rock towards her slightly, as he has often done these past couple of days, and she smiles at him sadly. Winta has finally finished up her goodbyes, the child cooing back at her with flattened ears, and she grips her hand tight again. The Mandalorian loads the rest of his belongings and perches himself beside the child as the speeder lurches forward to carry them away. The village waves as they fade into the tree line, and she does too, knowing that the part of her heart that her husband’s death left behind, is now currently being ripped from her too.

She tries to not feel sad, but instead privileged.

So few people in life ever felt this once, and she was lucky enough to think she may have found it twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh sorry! It was necessary for my story's sake so that it can fit in with Din's character and the show. But this is not the end! Much, much more to come, so please hang in there! And I promise this isn't a rewrite of the rest of the season.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regrets and reunions, but some things have changed in his absence.

He laughs without humour at the irony of it. It seems unbearably cruel to have wandered most of your life alone, then finally find someone worth staying in one place for, only for it to be impossible.

Maybe this was his lot for all the sins of his past.

They make it back to the Razor Crest without further incidence, and he hopes that means the bounty hunter had been alone. He feels reassured that Cara would be staying on-world and keep an eye on the peaceful village, but it didn’t ease the ache in his chest.

“Come on, kid,” he says quietly, swinging off the speeder and unloading all his gear.

Thankfully the kid seems to understand the severity of the situation as he is uncharacteristically quiet, simply ambling his way into the ship and climbing into his little hatch. He remains there with a watchful eye as the Mandalorian packs the crates into the hull and sends the speeder on its way.

He makes his way over to the hatch and lets out a bone-deep sigh at the sad look on the kid’s face as he chirps in question.

“Time to go.”

He deposits him on the back seat and fires up the engines to let them warm up after weeks of disuse. In his pocket, his gloved fingers close around the charm Omera had given him and he strokes his thumb over the solid knot that signified family. Sunlight leaking into the cockpit turns the teal fibres luminous. Swallowing thickly, he reaches forward to attach it to a bracket on the wall by the kid’s seat. He sits back oddly content, watching as the hanging threads sway. The Mandalorian clears his throat at the sight and moves to the pilot seat, lifting the ship off Sorgan soil and leaving the atmosphere.

It is not long before another starship hails his comms with messages of ‘ _give it up_ ’ and ‘ _you’ve got nowhere to run,_ ’ and comes blasting out from seemingly nowhere.

“ _Di'kut_ ,” he curses under his breath, _idiot_ , as he manoeuvres them out of the firing line. What kind of bounty hunter announces their position before being assured of victory?

This inadequate one, clearly. Before long he has dealt with the assailant, happy that at least any communications the hunter had managed to send would speak of his departure from Sorgan. With any luck, that would be enough for the planet to remain unassuming and distant from the darkness that seems to follow the Mandalorian wherever he goes.

* * *

In the weeks that follow, he is hit by stroke after stroke of bad luck, and he thinks this is definitely the galaxy’s way of getting back at him. He travels from what seems to be one end of the galaxy to the other, only just managing to feed the kid, and he can tell they are both missing the meals they had been treated to on Sorgan. Any weight that the Mandalorian had put on while there was shed from him in a matter of days, and he thinks it absurd that that had been one of his biggest worries at the time. As long as the kid had enough to eat, and he himself had enough to keep his strength up to protect him, it would do.

He had been desperate for work, without the more secure jobs associated with the Bounty Hunter’s Guild, and had taken jobs that were less than ideal. His biggest regret had been taking the job with his old crew as it had brought the darkest parts of his past to the surface, memories he had tried to forget.

When he does manage to sleep between all the chaos, he thinks he can just pick up the hint of Omera’s scent in his sheets, but he wonders how much of that is also wishful thinking. The blanket they had gifted to the kid was a nice gesture but also a painful reminder. It is worn and threadbare in a way that suggests it had been well used for many years, and he wonders if perhaps it had been Winta’s once, like the crib had been.

He visits Sorgan briefly a month later, purposefully landing the Razor Crest even further from the village than he had the first time. He wars with himself the plethora of reasons why he should not return to the village, even just to check-in. So he quickly recruits Cara, who is to no surprise partaking in chain fights for credits at the cantina, and gets off-world as soon as the Crest’s engines will allow. And that is the beginning of the next wave of trouble.

By the time all the drama is over with Moff Gideon and his army on Nevarro, he feels so incredibly _tired_. His body is severely weakened from all the stress and abuse he has put it through, and his soul is crushed. They had lost the Ugnaught, Kuiil, and even the droid who had made him question all his deep-rooted hatred for the things. The covert had been overrun, so many Mandalorian lives lost, all because he had taken a bounty on a child. Although he does not regret finding the kid, handing him over to the imp will forever be his darkest sin, and he will take it to his grave no matter how much time and effort he spends repenting.

He sits slumped in the pilot seat, turning the jetpack over in his hands. He remembers thinking he had to get himself one of them, stars, how long ago that seemed to be. And now he has one, he can barely even lift himself from his seat.

“What are we gonna do, Womp Rat?” he sighs, turning in his chair to watch the kid as he cocks his head to the side.

He sits in the cradle Kuiil had fashioned for him. Another kindness he would never be able to repay, though he knew the generosity people showed was for the little one, certainly not for him. They probably felt sorry for the kid, being stuck with a father such as him. Now a clan of two, as the Armourer had said. The poor kid.

 _Father_. That was something he had never imagined for himself. But he also remembers lucid dreams of days bathed in sun, drinking on the porch and a warm body at his side as the kid plays with tiny blue creatures. And laughter, so much laughter.

The kid makes an unrecognisable garble that draws his attention. What he does recognise is the pendant the kid is bringing up to his mouth to suck. He feels his chapped lips twitch in a smile and then the kid turns his big eyes to the hanging cluster of threads at his side, reaching the claws of his free hand up towards it but not quite able to reach. The Mandalorian leans forward in his chair, as far as he can without spilling out onto the floor, and unhooks the charm to pass it to the kid. He grasps it tightly and sinks back into his cradle, the sigil of his Creed in one hand, and the possibility of a future in the other.

Perhaps they deserved a bit of rest. Surely the kid misses the friends he had made and the easy life at the krill ponds. Just until they recuperated and could go in search of his lineage in earnest. He hesitates for all of two seconds before he is prepping the ship for take-off and sending a comm out to Cara.

“Do you want some soup?” He asks casually, reminiscent of the first words he had uttered to her after their brawl had ended in a stalemate.

Internally he is on edge and conflicted. He hopes she hasn’t gotten too far and is happy to come back, he feels an unfamiliar need to have her with him if he is to make the journey back. But a small part of him also hopes she will decline the offer, because he does not know what returning will really mean for him.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she says after some time, probably racking her brain to understand why he was asking such an obscure thing, and he can practically see the knowing smirk on her face.

She didn’t need to be asked twice. She was aboard his ship and being an obnoxious backseat pilot before he had even finished his pre-flight routine.

“Just couldn’t stay away, could you?” she says, having abruptly changed from offering her opinion on flight paths and trajectories after the cold look he had shot over his shoulder.

Only now he wishes she would criticise his flying skills, even his ship, because those were safe topics of conversation that he knew how to answer.

He didn’t have the faintest idea how to answer _that_ question though. Judging by the smug look on her face as she sits in the other seat, ankles crossed languidly up on the edge of the control dashboard, he thinks she probably isn’t expecting an answer.

He gives a sigh, “On second thought, maybe I should leave you here.”

“Sorry,” she snorts, emphasising each syllable. When he doesn’t react, she sobers instantly and adjusts her position, feet now planted firmly on the ground and leaning forward elbows on knees to look at him sincerely. “Sorry, I’m being an ass. I know this is a big decision for you.”

He remains silent, having finished checking all the instruments and now lifting the Razor Crest to depart.

“She missed you when you left, you know? I could tell,” she tells him quietly, voice unexpectedly low. “I stopped in a couple of times, but I know she was looking past me to see if you’d come too. I don’t know a great extent of what went on with you two, you’re both pretty cryptic, but I know yearning when I see it-”

“-We’re going for the kid, so he can be with other kids again. That’s it,” he replies immediately, cutting off the ends of her words.

“Okay, okay,” she jumps, holding her hands up in surrender. “Just… there is no way they didn’t see your ship when you came for me, it’s pretty distinctive. So just… think about that.”

True to her word, she did drop it, and instead sat back in her seat in thought.

He sets the co-ordinates for Sorgan, a trip that is not too long considering the treks he had been doing recently, and announces he is going to get cleaned up. Cara suggests he also rest, as no doubt there will be a celebration at their return and she knows how he tended to like sitting by the fire with a certain beautiful widow. And her teasing ways were back. Old habits die hard, he supposes, but doesn’t really hold it against her.

He takes the kid with him, not wanting to let him out of his sight considering the ordeal they had just been through. He speaks lowly to him in Mando’a, soft reassurances and nothings, figuring he should start getting the kid used to the language since they were now clan. He doesn’t react any different than when he has spoken in Basic. He puts him in the padded hatch and no sooner has he tucked the blanket around his shoulders, then the little one is out cold. The Mandalorian huffs a fond laugh and closes the hatch.

He quickly goes about showering, struggling slightly with undoing the armour due to the stiffness in his bones. He takes note of his injuries now, thinking back on how they had all faded with his time on Sorgan, but were now back with a vengeance. The bacta had healed his brain injury, but the rest of his body was a mess.

He shakes his head and steps into the warm water, his body will heal in time if he takes it easy. No doubt Omera will be there to enforce him. He smiles unconsciously at the thought, only aware because he suddenly feels a sting on his dry lips and tastes metallic, his lips having split under the minuscule pressure. What a fright he must look.

He dons fresh base layers and bodysuit then sets about cleaning and polishing his armour. It takes a decent amount of time due to all the blaster scorches and circuitry damage the E-Web battery explosion had caused. He is just finishing up on his pauldron where he sees the signet of his clan, the mudhorn. He feels pride swell within him at the sight and polishes around it with extra care.

Once done, he suits up and allows himself a small rest before Cara is popping her head down into the hull to announce their approach. His stomach is suddenly overrun with a swarm of butterflies as he retrieves the groggy child and climbs to the cockpit to strap down for atmospheric turbulence.

He easily identifies the clearing he had used for his previous visits as well as the township, though it is the sight of the krill farm that has his stomach lurching. He decides to land closer this time, between the village and the township, but not so close as to draw attention.

The kid is bouncing in his lap with excitement by the time the final thrusters shut off and the Crest rests securely on solid ground. He glances at Cara out the side of his visor and sees she too appears to be beaming. They gather the few supplies they can carry and he deposits the kid in his floating cradle to hover alongside them as they begin their journey. After about twenty minutes of an easy walk, the trees give way to the small village, the epitome of peace.

As they walk closer, the group of children playing tag notice them first and begin excitedly pointing, looking around frantically to the adults for permission. And once the adults deem them to not be a threat, there is no holding the horde of kids back as they sprint towards them, eruptions of laughter and cheer.

The adults follow at a much more reasonable pace, abandoning their work for the time being. He scans every smiling face he sees and is thankful that the helmet allows him to search wildly for Omera’s face, but the outward impression remains a very slow and minute tilt to his head.

He finally spots her.

She is hip-deep in one of the krill ponds, looking up with concern to what had caused all the commotion. He watches as she wades to the pond edge and hauls herself out, wet skirts clinging to her legs. She wrings the excess water out as she begins to walk briskly in the path everyone else had taken. He is partially obscured from her line of vision as she rounds the corner, but the moment she locks eyes on them, he can tell.

Her face lights up in the most relieved smile he thinks he has ever seen, and she continues even quicker to their position. By now the other kids have crowded them, flocking to the kid. To his surprise, they are also happy to see him, smiling toothily.

“You’re back!” Omera exclaims once she weaves her way through the throng of kids. She throws her arms around Cara in a warm hug which the other woman returns with a broad laugh. The Mandalorian feels his heart thrum as she releases Cara and turns to him.

Does she mean to embrace him as well?

She looks as if she is going to, then perhaps thinks better of it and just lingers at the very edge of his personal space, though he doubts he has any space he would not welcome her into. At least in theory.

“Hello again,” he offers, and her smile widens even more if possible as she takes him in. “We were wondering if there was still an offer of laying low here?”

She lets off a soft laugh, shaking her head, “That offer will never cease to stand. Do you have belongings we should get from your ship?”

“I’ve left the Razor Crest closer than last time, so I’ll make a run back later,” he replies, thinking maybe he should have parked it further away. Another night on his ship like after their trip to the town was tempting. “Though I don’t imagine I need the weapons like last time.”

“No, thankfully,” she laughs. “It has been quiet since, not even a stirring.”

He tips his head in recognition, “I’d like to visit the gravesite if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” she whispers.

“Can we play with him?” Winta quickly cuts in, seeing her small window of opportunity.

“Just stay where I can see you,” he answers not ungently, lifting the kid out of the cradle and setting him on the ground. Using the command on his vambrace he shuts the pod down and it slowly lowers to the ground.

“We will play outside your hut!” She calls back as all the kids dart off with the little one, chattering excitedly.

His hut? He turns to Omera at his side and cocks his head.

“It is as you left it… I haven’t had the heart to go in there,” she confesses, looking to her feet as she leads the way. “In hindsight, it was a good move. I couldn’t imagine anyone else being in there.”

“You imagined I’d come back?”

“I had hoped,” she smiles with a blush, wringing her hands in her damp skirts.

He is silent as they continue, and before long they are standing at the once destroyed krill pond. The wildflowers had grown in his absence, now swaying gently in the wind at knee height, a mass of colour. A cobbled path leads to the centre where the durasteel headstone sits. Omera gestures him forward and then trails behind him. He stops a foot from the site, crouching down despite his protesting knees. Omera scoots to his side and kneels there, silently watching him and absently twirling a nearby wildflower stem. He reaches for the charm, touching his gloved fingers to the central knot.

“With this knot we bind you,” he murmurs, half as a question, and tilts his helmet to her.

She smiles prettily, though sad, and nods. Her eyes flicker to the headstone and she reaches slender fingers to settle over his on the charm.

“With this knot we bind you,” she repeats, closing her eyes and bowing her head in prayer.

He is captivated by her all over again, and he wonders how he ever found the strength all those weeks ago to leave. When she opens her eyes he turns his gaze away abruptly.

“ _Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an_ ,” he whispers as he had at the funeral.

She looks to him for a moment and he sees wetness well in her eyes. She opens her mouth as if to repeat his words then hesitates, a bashful laugh escaping her as a tear tracks down her cheek.

“… One in life and death? Strength of spirit… and heart?” she recalls, swatting the tear quickly. “I’m afraid I might butcher that.”

“I’ll teach you one day,” he chokes out with a nod, surprized she remembers.

She nods and they remain as they are for a few more seconds before heading back to the centre of the village and getting him settled.

As per custom, a feast is held in their honour. Omera brings him a tray to the barn so that he might eat, and his empty stomach grumbles with appreciation much to his embarrassment. Omera takes care of the kid so that they can both eat, and despite recent events and not wanting to let the kid out of his sight, he finds leaving him with Omera puts him at ease.

As he leaves the barn once finished, the sun has set and cast the village in the blue-grey hues of dusk, though a central bonfire is more than enough to strive off the chill in the air. He is bombarded with people, all giving their thanks for his previous deed to them and for returning again.

He has been so distracted with the overwhelming welcome that it is just when the last of the villagers are finished speaking with him that he sees it. Omera is across on the other side of the fire, standing with a small group and laughing while they all sip from their cups. A man stands at her side, closer than the rest, too close, and the Mandalorian feels the coiling in his stomach of a distant memory.

He never forgot a face, a useful skill in the cold, calculating profession of bounty hunting, so he knows he has never seen this man before, let alone in this village.

“Oh yeah,” Cara drawls, sidling up to him with her cup full to the brim and jerking her chin towards the group. “I forgot to mention that.”

While the Mandalorian never forgets a face, a name is a different story. He forgets those nearly the minute he is told them. Yet a face and name had tormented his thoughts while he had been away.

He’d thought he would only have to worry about Garren, and only when they visited the town.

But clearly there was also another contender.

Well, Kriff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And he's back! I feel there was so much development in the show after he left Sorgan, in terms of Din's character and story, and I wanted to be able to recognise those things and how they have changed him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is power in a name, and the Mandalorian and the child get some much-needed rest, then a late-night visitor is knocking on his door!

“In my defence, I don’t think anything is happening there,” Cara begins as they watch through the flames, but even she seems to backtrack upon watching the man. “At least on her part. He arrived not long after you left, and you know what this place is like with misfits.”

“Makes no difference to me,” he says nonchalantly, shrugging and walking over to sit down on a nearby crate.

He sees as she rolls her eyes and follows him, nudging him over with her hip so she can perch at his side, “Okay,” she snorts sarcastically.

He sighs, purposefully angling his helmet as if looking at the fire, when actually his eyes were still glued to where Omera stood. She is being politely attentive to what the man is saying, but he can see she is subtly scanning around, looking for Winta probably. Said kid is in plain sight though, so he wonders why she is still searching.

“What did you expect?” Cara asks softly, breaking his train of thought. “She’s kind, dedicated, attractive. You’re not the only one to notice. And you won’t be the last.”

He doesn’t know how to respond. So he doesn’t, and Cara lets out a sigh of her own as she stands, slapping him on the shoulder in parting. She wanders over to get her cup refilled and the movement appears to draw Omera’s eyes. He watches as they flicker to him, her face lighting up as if she hadn’t noticed him there before. He lets himself consider maybe she had been searching for him after all, certainly not too far fetched considering she turns back to the man, placing a hand briefly on his arm then leaving his side to approach the Mandalorian.

He feels his hand twitch without his control as she touches the man, but the sudden bitterness he feels is quickly dissolved as she steps in front of him, gesturing to the seat Cara had vacated.

He sweeps the edge of his cloak back from where it had settled at his side and encourages her to sit, “Thank you for the meal before, I’ve haven’t eaten like that since I left.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, her body angled towards him. “Judging by the way your boy ate, I’d say he’s missed it too.”

“I haven’t had time to correct his table manners, it’s been on my to-do list,” he exhales, feeling her gaze pierce through the beskar.

Her laugh is like the chiming of a bell and she takes a sip from her cup. The sound draws the attention of the man across the fire, his eyes watching them sceptically. The Mandalorian bets the man’s eyes are green, because the galaxy wasn’t quite done taking shots at the bounty hunter.

“He’s new,” he utters, trying to keep the unwarranted distaste from his voice and tilting his helmet towards the man who abruptly turns away as Omera looks over.

She gives the Mandalorian a sidelong glance and the glint in her eyes suggests his distaste has definitely been noted.

“Hmm, Darq. He’s Pippa’s brother,” she explains. “He’d been working near the outer rim, but his business fell through so he’s staying here until he can get back up on his feet. He’s staying with her at the moment, but their hut is already cramped as is, with the kids. I should have been the good host and offered the barn, but I couldn’t. I still can’t imagine anyone else staying in there.”

He tries to not feel smug at that. That the man, Darq, wasn’t given the same offer that he had been when first arriving. He only partially succeeds.

“You’re more kind than I deserve,” he replies. “I should have offered to stay on my ship, it’s really not that far.”

She bumps him with her shoulder, “I wouldn’t have let you if you’d tried. The barn is yours for however long you’d like it.”

“Thank you,” now he downright fails at not being smug, though thankfully his helmet masks it.

She doesn’t say anything after that for a time, but he can tell she is itching to. Her fingers absently but persistently drum on the side of her cup, and the furrow in her brow has deepened considerably the longer she remains silent. She huffs a breath and sets her cup down, clearing her throat.

“I actually want to apologise. About when we last saw each other… when I tried to take off your helmet…” she finally manages, her normal calm confidence shattered and leaving anxiety and shame clear in her eyes. “I’ve felt guilty ever since. I told you I admired your dedication to Mandalorian culture, and I do, but then I disrespected you because of my own selfishness. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, and well… I just hope I haven’t ruined your opinion of me.”

He knew this had to come up at some point, but the reality still sent him a curveball. She looks distraught, and where she had avoided looking into his visor just before, she now looks on desperately, almost pleading. And he cannot hope to meet the fierce gaze.

Instead he looks into the fire, the flames dancing in the light breeze and sending sparks of embers floating to the stars. The joyous atmosphere of celebration is interrupted only by the loud snaps of logs splitting under the heat. Like the wood of the fire, he feels that he too is splintering under the unbearable heat, though the scorching he feels has nothing to do with the blaze.

He is mesmerised, as in the flames he can see a different future.

“I have thought about that a lot since. I very nearly let you take it off, the thought of settling down here…” he trails off, getting lost in the pictures the flames are creating. Different scenarios and alternatives, but all leading back to a life with her. “But I still can’t give you that.”

He realises his slip a second too late to prevent it and his eyes go wide.

“Show you my face, I mean,” he stammers quickly in an attempt to save face, that had sounded an awful lot like he assumed she wanted to settle down with him. He adjusts his position self consciously as he peeks at her out the corner of his visor.

“I’ll take anything so long as you stay for a while,” she smiles and nods in a way that makes him know she didn’t miss his slip of words.

In that moment, he wants to give her so much, and he aches with the need for her to _know_ him. The man beneath all the beskar. Who had spent his life just surviving, and feeling so incredibly _done with it all_. He was only living half a life in this miserable world until the kid had come along. And her. He’d been happy for a time, and ensured he left before darkness could catch up with them all, but then what had been the point if everything had fallen apart anyway?

How could he articulate all that, without sounding broken? Because no one wanted a broken man.

Maybe one day he’d have the courage to tell her, but for now he’d start on the surface.

“My name,” he hesitates, speaking lowly after some time. “I can’t give you my face, but you can have my name. Only you.”

He turns to look at her and notes the pretty blush colouring her smiling cheeks. She looks so extremely blessed to be trusted with his name and she nods her head quickly in encouragement. He is stumped, but also grateful. Very few people in the galaxy would recognise the vulnerability he is exposing himself to with the simple admission of a name, yet she looks as though she is about to be bestowed with the greatest gift. Or he thinks maybe her lot in life must be pretty drab too if she cherishes something so small.

“It’s Din,” he tells her and doesn’t feel any of the anxiety he thought he would.

His name had been thrown around considerably recently after not having been uttered for… he doesn’t even know how long. Telling another his name of his own accord was uplifting, Moff Gideon had taken that right from him on Nevarro.

“Din...” she tests it out slowly, the beaming smile on her face not slipping a fraction. “It’s nice to finally have a name for when I think of you.”

That was the second curveball of the evening and her bold admissions reminded him of a night not so long ago. when she had declared him to be handsome, at least in her mind’s eye. He couldn’t stop himself from conjuring up the notion of her picturing him in her mind and whispering his name. He grits his teeth the moment the thought surfaces. These were dangerous thoughts.

“Cara knows too, but not by me,” he continues, attempting to distract himself from those previous thoughts with a retelling of the disastrous encounter with the Moff.

She listens avidly, her brows scrunching in concern and mourning, then jumping to her hairline with relief at its conclusion. She does not ask for more than he offers and only adds small interjections when she sees he is struggling. He thinks maybe she wants to ask about when he came to get Cara, but she doesn’t and he’s glad. He’s not ready to unpack all that with her just yet.

She is much too good for him, but he knows no one else will ever measure up to her either. So, he will make it his sole effort to at least try to live up to the pedestal shes so clearly put him on.

* * *

It had been a late-night yesterday, and when everyone had decided to call it a night, Cara had waltzed into Omera’s hut as if she’d never been away. Winta was always excited whenever Cara made her infrequent visits, and Omera would let her bedtime lax in favour of the rebel shock trooper entrancing Winta with tales from every corner of the galaxy. Luckily Cara had the aptitude to censor her adventures suitable to a young girl of ten who hung on every word. She imagines the Mandalorian has the same quality.

 _Din_.

She felt giddy at finally knowing his name and the fact that he had offered it freely, not because she’d asked. And she had thought about asking so many times. She couldn’t use it, at least not with anyone but him, but she appreciated how much it cost him to tell her. She had found it difficult to sleep that night, indescribably happy at their return, and had spent most of her time tossing and turning until the sun eventually rose to an acceptable hour for waking.

Now she sits in the morning sun at the table in the sitting area of her hut, sipping tea and weaving a charm when she hears Cara awaken. It amazes her that Cara can drink the whole village under the table, yet still wake the next morning brimming with energy and a hearty appetite for meddling.

“Day’s a-wasting,” she booms as she leaves her curtained section of the hut, hair sticking up this way and that. She throws herself down on the chair across from Omera and stretches her arms behind her head. “I’ve missed that bed.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Omera chuckles, putting the charm she’d been working on to the side and offering a smile.

The movement catches Cara’s eye and she sits forward and squints at the unfinished piece, then recognition lights her eyes, “I knew that looked familiar. He’s got one on his ship. It's hanging in the cockpit, sometimes the kid swipes it though.”

The mental image brings a smile to Omera’s face and a flutter to her stomach. He had seemed so entranced by the charms when she’d first shown him. She’d been self-conscious explaining their origin, she loved the tales and traditions of their village, but knew they probably seemed old-fashioned and backward to someone so well versed in the galaxy. However, he had merely listened with fierce interest, and it has clearly left an impression on him judging by his sentiment at the gravesite yesterday.

When Winta stirs from sleep and stumbles in scrubbing her eyes, Omera realises her mind has wandered back to him, _again_. She snaps her attention back to Cara and instantly feels herself go red at the glint in the other woman’s eyes. She clears her throat and considers what to say to distract her but is too late and gets cut off by Cara’s teasing.

“So how come he got one and I didn’t?” Cara asks with mock petulance, but she can tell for all her teasing, she is happy. Nothing got past Cara, and they had shared a few hushed conversations about the bounty hunter before.

Winta approaches to lean against where she sits, and she combs her fingers through her daughter’s hair fondly.

“We’ve already got one here,” Omera points out smugly, indicating the faded charm hanging near the entrance. “And because when you visit you stay with us, your dreams are already protected.”

She intentionally leaves Din out of her response and smiles at her daughter. Nevertheless, Cara teases that she’s pretty sure she knows what his dreams include and it’s nothing he needs protection from, waggling her brows suggestively.

“Did you sleep well?” Omera asks her daughter, instead of responding to Cara’s gape with anything other than a scandalised grin. She had missed the woman and her ever-present wit, even if it was often at Omera’s own expense.

Winta gives a groggy nod in response, unaware of the less than appropriate conversation the older women are having. Omera watches her daughter and waits for the recollection that their guests had returned to show on her face. She was characteristically groggy, never much of a morning person, but she would normally snap out of it. And suddenly the blank look in her eyes is replaced with wonder, in record time no less.

“Let’s go get breakfast!” she exclaims, pulling at Omera’s hand and charging around the table to haul Cara up too. And Omera knows what she is really saying is ‘ _let’s go find the child’._ They both laugh and trail behind her and she leads them to the village hall. Despite the festivities of the night before, most of the village is already there and no one looks particularly worse for wear. She notices the Mandalorian and his child’s absence before Winta does. Winta is instantly deflated, and Omera gives her shoulders a squeeze as she nudges her forward to get some breakfast, “They’re probably still sleeping, Winta. They wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”

“It’s been a rough few months for them since they left,” Cara offers when Winta remains silent. “You’ll have plenty of time with the kid later.”

“But what if they leave again?” she sulks, slumping onto the bench at an empty table once they’ve gotten their share. Winta would normally sit with the other children, so Omera knows she is upset and unconvinced.

“Something tells me they won’t be leaving any time soon. The big guy’s got some serious healing to do.”

That draws Omera’s attention, she’d been so over the moon to see him finally return that she hadn’t noticed anything else, had he been limping?

“He told me what had happened on Nevarro, but he didn’t mention injuries,” she reports, suddenly not feeling hungry.

“He took a beating! I actually thought we might lose him at one point. He wouldn’t let me help him, all that _kriffing_ ‘this is the way’-” she cuts off, whether because she realises she swore in front of Winta, or that Omera looks utterly distraught, is unclear. “Sorry, he’s okay now though, for the most part at least.”

Winta looks concerned too, and she realises Cara probably isn’t used to having children around or lives not ruled by war, for that matter. The raids must pale in comparison to what she had seen.

That seems to have reassured Winta much more easily than her mother, because she is back to her chipper self, picking up her spoon without pause.

“I knew it. He is so cool, no one could beat him in a fight! Didn’t you see all his weapons, Mama?” Winta gushes, talking around large mouthfuls.

“Mind if I join you?” a low voice cuts in, and Omera looks up from her daughter to see Darq hovering on the other side of the table, bowl in hand. “It is pretty bustling this morning.”

“Of course,” she smiles and inclines her head to the seat at Cara’s side. “Darq, you remember Cara, she visits from time to time.”

“Yes, nice to see you again,” he replies kindly and takes a seat, looking to Cara. “Where’s your friend?”

Darq was a friendly man and had fit in well with the village almost instantly, so Omera is surprised when she thinks she hears a slight clip to his words. She shrugs it off, mentioning that the Mandalorian and his child must still be resting, and begins eating.

“Was he here before? Everyone keeps talking about him,” Darq begins conversationally, not looking up from his food. “I should have introduced myself last night, what is his name?”

Omera gets the distinct impression he is prying for information on the impressive bounty hunter and she internally chuckles. It had been something hushed behind closed doors when Pippa’s attractive brother had arrived, many of the women instantly found themselves drawn to the man. He was charismatic and charming, and completely different from the humble men of the village.

While Din was not the subject of every woman’s fantasies, they all appreciated and admired him in one way or another. It surprised Omera, really, that no one else had shown interest above gratitude for him, though she supposes she’s never voiced her opinion either, so maybe others just internalised it too. She is shocked that the thought makes her stomach turn with jealousy. She hadn’t felt jealous in a very long time, but then again Din was making her feel all kinds of things she thought she had long buried.

“We don’t know,” she lies, subtly looking to Cara who is absorbed in her bowl. Omera wonders if she knows that he had also told her. “He’s never told us and we don’t ask. It is in his culture to be private. He’s very nice though, you’ll like him.”

“Everyone seems to be in awe of him, I look forward to meeting him properly. By the sounds of it, he did a great service here, with your help I understand?” Darq smiles warmly and turns to Cara.

“I don’t like to brag,” Cara reports in good nature, her tone speaking only of bragging.

They all laugh, and Winta looks at them like they’ve lost their minds, clearly not having been paying attention.

“May I get down from the table?” She asks, eyes darting to her friends as they wave her over.

Omera smiles at her daughter’s manners and gives her a quick kiss to the crown of her head, “There won’t be lessons today since our guests have arrived. Go wash up and then you can go with your friends.”

“Yes!” Winta cheers and jumps from her spot, collecting her bowl and rushing to dump it in the growing pile. She whisks past their table again in a gangly run and flurry of wild hair.

“And don’t go near the barn!” Omera quickly calls as the children rush outside, and a chorus of grumbles answer her. She gives her daughter a stern look. “Winta?”

“I promise, Mama!” She whines back, disappointment evident, and is off.

Omera turns back to the table and gives her companions an amused sigh.

* * *

He slept better than he imagined he would. By the time he is awoken by the little one, he can tell it is late morning judging by the sun streaming in through the blinds. The kid is standing up in his crib, claws hooked around the edges as he croons at him softly. It is as if the kid wants to wake him, but also doesn’t want to disturb his sleep.

Normally the kid sleeps on and off for a few hours at a time, his own fault for not establishing a proper routine. He could be forgiven on this occasion, as nothing about the past few weeks had gone to plan, but now that they were here it seemed like a good time to start. That being said, the kid had slept through the night, Din was a light sleeper and would have noticed otherwise. Judging by the heaviness to the kid’s eyes at the moment, he thinks they might be able to sneak a couple more hours in.

He rolls out of the cot, wincing as all his injuries make themselves known beneath the beskar, and walks over to the crib. The kid reaches his hands up with a delighted coo and Din carries him back to the cot with him.

“Just this once, little one,” he murmurs, settling back down into the bed and placing the kid at his side. He practically purrs and snuggles in, snoring softly within seconds.

Din watches the movement of his eyes behind his eyelids in a dream and wonders what he sees. All he’d seen since Din had found him was chaos and desperation, who knew what his fifty years had been filled with prior to that. Yet the kid seems happy. Maybe Karga had been right and the kid will save him after all. He swallows thickly and strokes the kid’s head, the corner of his mouth turning up as the kid makes a noise of content in his sleep. The little one was a blessing in disguise. He had given Din something to fight for, beyond that of his tribe.

Din rests his helmeted head back against the pillow and shuts his eyes, taking advantage of the fact that sleep found him easy here. The kid doesn’t stir again, and it speaks of the exhaustion he must be facing too.

It is well past noon when Din’s stomach wakes him again, and he thinks it strange that he’d been here less than a day and already his appetite was adjusting. This time he wakes the kid, gently shaking him awake and watching as he blinks his sleepy eyes open.

“Should we see what food we can scrounge up?” He asks him and the kid’s ears perk up.

He gently places him down on the ground and stands himself, grimacing at the pain and weakness in his knees. But he pushes through it and begins out into the sun, the little one toddling behind him slowly. He is thankful to have the kid’s slow pace allow him to also take his time without exposing his weakness. Despite no threats here, his bounty hunting ways are ingrained in his very soul.

Before he can take two steps onto the porch, he notices a small parcel sitting on the barrel at the entrance to the barn. He approaches it with caution, glancing back to make sure the kid is behind him.

“It’s just some leftovers,” a small voice calls from around the corner of the barn. When his eyes shoot up, he sees Winta standing sheepishly, hands twisted in the front of her worn dress. “I thought you might get hungry when you woke. We didn’t wake you, did we? We tried to be quiet.”

Winta steps forward, a concerned look deep in her brow. She is so much like her mother, in both looks and nature, and Din finds himself trying to pick out the parts of her that may have come from Omera’s late husband.

“No, I didn’t hear you, it was my stomach that woke us both,” he tries to reassure her lightly. It seems to do the trick as she grins widely and lets out a small giggle. “So, thank you for the food. That was very thoughtful of you.”

She continues to meet his visored gaze with a broad smile despite the pink pooling in her cheeks. He opens the crudely wrapped parcel and sees a small assortment of rolls, fruit and cured meat.

“I didn’t save you any porridge, it gets gross. Mama made me eat it once for lunch because I didn’t at breakfast and it was so yuck!” She reports, standing on her tiptoes in front of him and peering into the packed food. “Do you want some stew? I can heat some up.”

“No, thank you, this is more than enough.”

“I can take him to eat in the hall so you can eat here,” she offers, rocking back down onto her heels and pulling a silly face at the kid when he waddles over.

“Winta, I told you to leave them be,” Omera scolds gently, a basket of krill in her arms and skirts drenched.

He turns to watch her approach, suddenly hyper-aware of their conversation last night. Her cheeks are flushed, and her hair falls in wet tendrils trailing droplets on the ground. She has the long sleeves of her dress pushed up to her elbows, and Din finds himself fascinated by her delicate forearms and wrists.

“She didn’t disturb us,” he clarifies just as Winta opens her mouth to defend herself. “I regret we slept half the day, I should have been pulling my weight.”

“You’re here to rest, though I know you struggle with that,” she laughs quietly, propping the basket on her hip and wrapping her other arm around Winta.

At that moment, the kid has padded over to them and is gently tugging on Omera’s dress. She smiles warmly down at him, dropping the basket and swooping the kid up. He squeals in glee as she perches him on her hip, and he tangles his claws in the long strands of her hair. Din thinks if only he had the same excuse to run his hands through her hair.

“We’ll look after your boy while you eat. Then maybe we should look at your injuries,” Omera states in a way that makes him know it’s not up for debate, though she is gentle about it.

He thanks them both and watches as they depart, Winta talking animatedly and Omera responding with equal enthusiasm. And the kid warbles as if he understands their every word and is adding his own two credits. He turns back to the barn before the sight can make his chest ache in the way it so often does seeing them as a family.

He eats the packed meal quickly, wanting to savour it but also not wanting to leave the kid for too long. And if he’s honest, he wants to see Omera, even if it is while he tends to his wounds. He finds himself greedy with her time, for whatever time she spends with him is less time she is with the other man, Darq. Din didn’t like the way the other man watched her and also didn’t understand his compulsion to dislike a man he had never met. Cara had said there was nothing going on there, but that didn’t seem to be for lack of trying on Darq’s part.

Shaking his head, he quickly finishes his meal, puts his helmet on and goes to find them again. As he nears the village hall, he sees them sitting on Omera’s porch and heads there instead.

“Well hello, Sleeping Beauty,” Cara teases. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”

He tips his head to look at her but doesn’t say anything and he can see both Omera and her daughter sniggering, though Omera has the graciousness to roll her eyes at Cara’s antics.

She ushers him inside, giving the others stern instructions to watch the kid who is still stuffing his face, and sets about directing him to a table of med supplies. Like last time, he sits in a secluded corner and tends to his injuries with her back to him and kind reassurances. He had found when he’d showered yesterday that the dried blood made it look worse than it really was. He had a decent collection of small scrapes and wounds, most of them not requiring anything, and others just a simple bandage. It was the internal bruising that he couldn’t cater to, but that would heal on its own as it had when he’d last been here. She tries again to offer the bacta and does not seem surprised when he declines, only shakes her head in good nature.

When he is done, it is almost time for the evening meal, and he is embarrassed to admit that he most definitely could eat again despite just scoffing all Winta had brought him. The night is simple, no big celebration as had been the case the night before and he offers to help clean up afterwards. Mostly because Darq had been hovering at her side the whole time. She lets Din help, after a quick debate about him not needing to, and he thoroughly crowds her time and laughter, feeling a satisfied prickle up his spine when Darq looks on from his seat. But the man is quickly distracted by the conversation of the group around him anyway and his eyes slide away.

“I’ll make you a herbal tonic to help you sleep tonight,” Omera offers kindly as they make their way to a small stream around the back of the hall. “It will also help with your pain, I can tell you’re aching. And I’ve packed dinner for you too.”

He stares down at her as she kneels and begins unstacking the tray of bowls from dinner. She really was the epitome of welcoming host. He’d tried to hide his injuries, but he supposes a limp was difficult to disguise, and he didn’t like the concerned look it brought to her eyes. He was a bounty hunter; injuries were just a part of the profession.

“That would be great, thank you,” he responds thickly, kneeling at her side.

He begins removing the vambrace of each forearm and can see her watching him.

“You don’t have to…” she begins but trails off as he is finally tugging off his gloves. He feels a tingling of heat at the back of his neck as her eyes clearly gawk at him. He wonders if perhaps she is intrigued by his hands as he had been by her forearms and wrists; skin normally concealed.

“I have to earn my keep, and I’m afraid I’m not quite up for more than washing yet,” he tries to argue, pushing the sleeves of his bodysuit and base layer up to his elbows, and grabbing a few of the bowls to start cleaning.

She purses her lips in thought then breathes a laugh as she starts washing too, “You are as stubborn as me. Thank you.”

They continue on in relative silence, but he finds himself at ease and despite having slept most of the day, tiredness creeps up on him. They are finishing up when Omera suggests taking the kid for the night so that he might sleep without his armour. He is conflicted with the offer, as he is reluctant to not have his eyes on the kid for a whole night, but also cannot pass up the opportunity to get a proper rest. He hadn’t been lying that night on the Razor Crest when he’d told her he was comfortable in beskar, but that had been when his wounds had healed and his bones didn’t ache with weeks of abuse.

When he hesitates, she gives a reassuring smile and warm hand to his bicep, “It’s okay to take a break every once in a while, caring for a child is challenging.”

He swallows against the dryness in his throat and tries to not be disappointed she had chosen the part of his arm still covered to place her hand. Though he isn’t quite sure how he would handle skin to skin contact, he can’t remember the last time it had happened, definitely before he swore the Creed.

And so, he finds himself alone in the barn later, pallets lodged in front of the entrance and comfortably resting on his cot with just the dark linen of base layers. He had practically inhaled the food Omera had left for him and sculled the peculiar spiced drink, the concoction bordering on making his tongue numb. Now he relishes the feeling of having washed quickly and foregoing placing all the beskar back on, a soft pillow underneath his bare head. The moment he closes his eyes he feels himself drifting into a dreamless sleep, his lips twitching to a smile thinking of the charm he had spied just moments earlier. Omera must have tied it to the low hanging rafters when he’d been busy inspecting the meal she had brought.

It feels like it must be hours later when his eyes snap open to the sound of heavy boots on the deck out the front of the barn, though they sound almost comically loud in the still night. He stays stock still and glides his hand to the blaster under his pillow, eyes flitting to his helmet on the table and calculating the best manoeuvre to retrieve it and aim at the intruder simultaneously.

There is a quick, brisk knock on the pallet and then a voice stage whispering, “Din?”

But how can you intrude if it’s your own property?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din's midnight intruder isn't really an intruder after all, they have a long chat and Din makes progress with his foundling!

“Din?” The voice calls softly and he instantly relaxes, abandoning the blaster and rolling off the cot. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” he replies, a warmth settling in his belly at hearing her say his name, then suddenly fear grips his heart. Something must be wrong. He rushes to the table and slams the helmet over his head as he darts to the pallets blocking the door. “Is everything okay? I’m coming out now.”

“It’s fine,” she blurts, clearly aware of the frantic tone in his voice. “There’s no rush, you can put your armour back on…”

But by the time her words make it out, he has already shoved the pallets aside and is standing in front of her dressed in just his base layers and helmet. For a moment she stands frozen, eyes taking him in. Although what he wears is a long sleeve shirt and pants, they are much thinner than his body suit and he instantly feels naked under her gaze. Heat blossoms in his chest and up his neck, most likely in plain sight now without his cloak obscuring his skin from view. The thought that she can see the evidence of her presence on him only makes him more embarrassed, and if that wasn’t the case, he may be able to appreciate that she looked to be checking him out.

“Sorry,” she shakes her head then gives an apologetic smile. “He just wouldn’t settle.”

She passes the kid over, who looks to him with a curious tilt to his head too. Once in his arms, the kid curls his claws into the loose neck of Din’s shirt, and the sensation of his clammy fingers brushing his skin is strangely comforting. Din looks down as the kid appears fascinated with his shirt collar and feels himself smile under the helmet. Even though he enjoyed his rest period without the kid there, he was happy to have him back. Surely he must have gotten at least a couple of hours in, judging by the stillness outside, past midnight at least.

“Do you want to come in?” he asks her quickly, stepping aside to give her room in the doorway then moving to the table to switch the lantern on. It bathes the barn in warm amber light, and he deposits the kid into his crib.

From his periphery, he sees Omera smile and step inside. She walks to his side just as he is swaddling a blanket around the kid.

“Clearly you’re all he wanted,” she speaks in a low tone, so as not to disturb the child who is quickly falling asleep. She is standing close and he feels the hairs at the back of his neck prick up, swears he can feel warmth rolling off her body and through the thin material of his shirt. She smiles up into his helmet and backs away, eyes caught on the beskar neatly stacked on a bench to the side. He had cleaned and freshly polished it before settling in for the night, so it now gleams under the light cast from the lantern.

He follows her over there and watches as she runs her fingers gently along the chest plate. He can almost feel the ghost of a touch just barely sweeping his own chest as she does.

“It’s nice to finally use your name, Din,” she whispers softly, eyes trailing her fingers over the pieces of his armour. “I haven’t been able to since you told me.”

The sound of his own name hits him again, but more so is the fact that she hadn’t used it outside of conversations with him. As he watches her, her eyes suddenly go wide and she withdraws her hand quickly, apology colouring her features.

“I’m so sorry. You’ve just polished it and here I am getting my fingerprints all over it.”

He waves her off and moves to run his own bare fingers along the chest plate as she had, “It is made of beskar, only damage and blaster scorches can mark it.”

He steps back and at his encouragement she smiles and turns back to the bench, inspecting each piece with a keen eye before stopping at his right pauldron. She picks it up delicately in her hands and moves her thumb to stroke over the mudhorn signet there.

“This is new?” She looks back at him, quickly flickering her eyes to him then back to inspect the risen design. “I don’t remember seeing it before.”

The admission makes his chest tight, to think she had noticed something so small. Even though the magnitude of the signet was a great source of pride for him, he knows it is but a small detail for an outsider to notice.

He hums in response, stepping closer to talk over her shoulder as she tilts it this way and that, watching how it catches the light, “It is a mudhorn. It’s my signet, distinguishes my _alitt_. Me and the little one.”

She turns abruptly around, a warm smile on her face and the pauldron still securely in her grip. She clearly hadn’t realised how close he had gotten, because her eyes widen at their proximity, but she makes no move to back away. The bench is close at her back though, so he supposes that is why. Instead he clears his throat and takes a half a step back.

At that, she smiles shyly and turns back to place the beskar with the rest, with deliberate care and attention. “That was your language?... Mando…a?”

“Mando’a, yes. _Alitt_ means clan. He is my foundling and therefore… my son.”

“Does he have a name? I’ve never heard you use one.”

“I’m not sure. He can’t tell me, but I’d like to think he does have one. He’s fifty, I just hope he had a good life before it all went to hell,” Din admits, not for the first time saddened at the thought of the poor kid’s life. “I haven’t really considered giving him a name in the meantime, until now at least. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

She appears to contemplate that, her own brow furrowing in sorrow too before her eyes instantly light up, “Maybe something in Mando’a? I wouldn’t rush, when Pippa had her first, they couldn’t decide on a name for weeks. Their baby was called baby girl for a long time before they decided.”

She smiles fondly, her gaze cast off as if in memory. He feels slightly less guilty at that, that even normal parents struggle with naming their own.

“How did you decide on Winta?” he brings her back to the present, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the bench. Instead of bringing a warm smile to her face as he had planned, she graces him with a small, sad smile. He straightens quickly and is about to apologise for whatever he had said to upset her, but she begins talking again.

“By the time I was pregnant with Winta, I had miscarried twice previously, so I hadn’t expected much from the pregnancy. I suppose it was a way of protecting myself from the heartache again, expect the worst and you’re never disappointed?” she explains with clear mourning, but he is impressed with the strength with which she says the words. “She was due to come in spring but… she decided to come early, very early. I thought I would lose another, but she was born, stronger than any baby I had ever seen. In winter.”

He pauses when she finishes, unfamiliar with sympathetic conversation yet wanting so badly to console her, “Your husband must have been very proud.”

 _‘Di’kut,’_ he thinks once the words come out. When someone expresses their sadness about losing an unborn child, you don’t bring up their dead husband. He was severely unprepared for such discussions.

But Omera is never phased, and all she has ever offered him is insight into her soul with a smile, be it a sad one, but a welcoming smile no less. How often does the galaxy need to prove to him that he could never be worthy of her?

“My husband… he was with the rebellion. It is actually how we met. There was an Imperial base here, on Sorgan of all places, and he was sent in with a team to scout. He was in the marketplace when I first saw him. He _definitely_ was not from around here and was causing all kinds of ruckus,” Omera says, pausing with a small laugh in memory. It is clear to see that she had loved her husband and still thought only fondly of him. Where Din had felt the irrational need to hurt both Garren and Darq, he thinks that there isn’t much he wouldn’t offer if he could bring back her husband for her. “Long story short, we married and settled here, but he would be gone sometimes for months at a time on assignment.”

She pauses again, turning back to the bench with his armour on it, drumming a finger slowly along the edge. He waits patiently for her to continue, saying nothing but angling his body so she knows she has his undivided attention.

“When Winta was born, he was away, and he was killed. His crew returned without him and I knew, and I think that’s why Winta was early, my body was in shock.”

He feels as though he has had the wind knocked out of him. He had hoped it would be a happy story, as everything about Omera radiated warmth and sunshine, yet she was carrying around this tragedy with her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because what else could he say?

She turns to him then with a smile, her face having lit up once more and only a touch of sadness in her eyes. She gives a shrug, “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore to talk about it. She is my miracle.”

“She is a good kid; you’ve done well with her.”

“As have you with your boy. A family bond is clear to see,” she says softly, eyes looking deep into his visor to the man underneath. “Speaking of, what happens in your culture? Do children see the faces of their parents?”

“Yes. I suppose it is still within the Creed for the kid to see my face… but I find I am nervous to show him.”

She smiles in understanding and reaches out to squeeze his forearm in reassurance. How had they gone from her telling him the sorrows of her parenting, yet _she_ is here comforting _him_?

“I can’t imagine what that must be like… it would be the first time since you were a child. But I’m sure your true face will far exceed his expectations.”

He fidgets under her gaze and feels his shoulders tense when there is a sudden sharp pang in his right axilla. He rolls it out through the sting and hopes Omera doesn’t notice. But he isn’t that lucky.

“You’re hurt?” Her expression suddenly turns grim, he misses the dazed glint her eyes had held a moment ago, and she pulls her hand back. “Well, more than I had thought I mean.”

“Hmm, from a job I did with some old… acquaintances, before Nevarro. It went bad and they turned on me. There was a woman, Xi’an, we had a bit of a history and I guess she had never gotten over it.”

He purposefully leaves his description vague. He doesn’t mention that they were breaking into a prison ship and springing a criminal, or that a man had to lose his life in the process. He doesn’t want to lie to her, just omits the truly dark facts of that mission, but also knows that he would tell her anything she ever asks. Thankfully she doesn’t, and he can remain undeservingly in her good graces.

“She has impeccable aim with her throwing knifes and a way of getting under your skin,” he continues, and it is now that he notices the unusual hostile stance she holds herself in, arms crossed and chin tilted up. She avoids his visor and for a moment he fears she has finally seen right through him.

“You seem very impressed by her,” she suggests, her voice having a certain chill, and although it may be subtle, he is wholly unused to anything but warmth from her. “Did she get under yours?”

He thinks, _‘of course she got under my skin,’_ but the tone to Omera’s voice makes him rethink his response. To him it seems as though she may be suggesting he had slept with Xi’an, but he can’t say for sure.

“Wha-, no. If you’re thinking what I think you are, definitely not,” he blurts, the thought itself is ludicrous. “Well, not for lack of trying on her part. She has no sense of personal space. And the more you resist the more forceful she becomes. She only got under my skin in the worst ways.”

Omera still looks unconvinced, and that’s all the confirmation he needs to know that yes, she was suggesting he had slept with the twi’lek. She seems almost mad, and he doesn’t know how to make it right, or even what could have caused such a reaction from her.

Din steps carefully forward, hand raised in a surrender and settles it on her upper arm gently. The sensation almost consumes him, despite his skin not touching hers due to the fabric of her dress, his gloveless fingers feeling the warmth through the thin material is enough.

“I didn’t sleep with her. Not with anyone…I’ve never…” he trails off as he realises his admission, suddenly overly concerned of how she would receive that information.

“Never…?” She looks shocked, though to her credit he can tell she is trying to hide it. He isn’t sure how he feels about her eyes roaming up and down his form, a curious tilt to her head. “You mentioned you were a foundling; I never gave it too much thought until now. Do Mandalorian’s practice celibacy?”

He is thankful the modulator on his helmet cancels out low, miniscule noises, though he suspects some of the groan that bubbles up his chest is still fed back. He feels immensely self conscious and wants nothing more than to crawl into a dark hole where Omera doesn’t think he is some adult virgin, even though he is. It was never something that evoked embarrassment before, though to be fair it generally didn’t come up, much less with a beautiful woman who he was beginning to feel the stirrings of _something_ for.

He steps back from her and stretches his hands back to support the back of his helmet. He finds he can no longer meet her gaze and lets out a sigh.

“No,” he replies to her assumption about celibacy, thoroughly mortified to be having this conversation. “But I was trained from a young age in the army corps. Since that time, I have only felt such gratitude and dedication to my tribe. Before now all I would do was collect bounties so that I could survive and fund the tribe in an attempt to give back all the Mandalorian’s had done for me. There just wasn’t really time…”

She watches his confession with her mouth slightly agape and he finds his hands trembling more in that observation.

“And I’ve never felt the need until…” he trails off and clears his throat. There was something truly dangerous about being around her, she made him spill more words than he had spoken in his whole lifetime. He always spoke with purpose, so therefore never got cut short because his words were already planned out. As if he hadn’t dug his own grave enough. He can’t help but drop his arms in defeat and turn away from directly facing her.

Being the ever-attentive host she is, of course she notices his discomfort and follows him, touching his shoulder gently and making everything almost worse.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” she smiles gently, then breathes a laugh with a shake of her head. “Everything you have ever told me only makes me admire you more. Embarrassingly so. And the fact that you don’t even realise… you must have broken many hearts over the years.”

He did not understand how he could confess such as he had, and still this incredible woman thought so highly of him. Surely there was a limit to her kindness, and he must be treading dangerously close to that edge by now.

“I’m not used to this,” he sighs, whispering in defeat. “So much has changed for me since finding the kid… meeting you.”

She looks deep into his visor as she often does, a sweet smile gracing her lips, “Me too.”

A soft coo from their side alerts them to the kid’s awakening and they both step apart, the crippling heat from before rising up Din’s neck once more.

“I should go, let you get some sleep,” Omera whispers with a shy smile, glancing back at him from underneath her eyelashes.

He wants to ask her to stay a bit longer, but his mouth is so dry he doesn’t know if he will be able to get that out and hold onto whatever is left of his dignity too. He stands still as she bids him goodnight with a lingering squeeze to his bicep.

Once she is well and truly gone, the sound of her light steps faded completely from his hearing, he turns to see the kid standing up in his crib watching.

“How long have you been awake Womp Rat?” he sighs, padding over to the crib as the kid chirps at him. “What do you think? Am I reading too much into what she’s saying?”

It has started that night by the fire, when she’d told him what she imagined he looked like. And since then he had noticed a change in their dynamic. If he was being honest, there was always something there, right from the moment he’d seen her opening the blinds in the barn on the very first day.

He picks the kid up and he immediately hooks his claws back into the collar of Din’s shirt. He watches him for a time, wondering if he was really ready for this, and if Omera was right and the kid would recognise him.

Before he can think better of it, he walks back to the table and places the kid down. He whines in disappointment and reaches his hands back up, but Din kneels to his height instead. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Din places trembling hands to the sides of his helmet and slowly lifts. He is still holding his breath when the helmet is completely removed, and he forces against squeezing his eyes shut as he so wants to while setting the helmet down.

Looking at the kid with his naked eyes, he sees the conflict in the little one’s shining eyes, and his ears flatten against his head. He lets out a nervous whimper and starts to lean back.

Din swallows against the lump in his throat and despite wanting to reach out and comfort the kid, he keeps his distance so as not to scare him and twitches into a small smile, “It’s still me, kid.”

At hearing his voice, though Din himself knows it to be fairly different than how it sounds through the helmet, the kid quickly brightens and coos, waddling forward to the edge of the table. His ears have perked right up, and Din cannot hold in the small choked laugh that escapes when a clammy hand settles on his cheek.

“Hello,” he whispers, and the kid reaches forward with his other hand to hold Din’s face. He fights the urge to withdraw, not used to something being so close to his bare face, much less a living being, and holds his breath as the little one slowly leans his wrinkled forehead against Din’s own.

The laugh from before turns into a full-on choke as Din pats the kid’s back. The kid seems to sense the gravity of his actions despite never having witnessed this particular part of Mandalorian culture, or any part really for that matter.

“That’s right, kid,” Din utters, blinking the burning from his eyes. “ _Aliit ori’shya tal’din_. Family is more than blood.”

He waits for the kid to move back, reluctant to be the one to withdraw, and inspects his happy face when he does.

“… _Ad’ika_? How’s that? Can I call you that, until you can tell me your real name?” he tries, and the little one’s responding squeal translates his approval. “Let’s get some sleep then.”

This time when they go to sleep, Din pulls the crib right next to his own cot, draping his arm inside as his son grips his index finger tight in sleep. He opts to not let him sleep in the cot with him yet, not wanting to reinforce bad habits, though he predicts that at some point in the night that will be the case.

But he figures if he is going to be a good parent, he’d better start as he means to go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love the idea of Din calling the child Ad'ika, maybe not as his proper name, but definitely as a nickname for now until we know his real name. I also apologise for the slight delay in posting this, I don't really have a proper schedule but it feels like it has been longer than normal. I've been very distracted playing the FFVII remake :D  
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara continues to tease and scheme, recruiting help from others, and Din and Omera have a moment!

Omera’s feet carry her numbly back to her own hut. Her conversation with Din had escalated very quickly and her face still felt overly warm despite the chill in the midnight air.

Jealousy had stirred so strongly in her chest when he had been talking about that woman, and she hadn’t even recalled her name. It wasn’t that she thought Din to be unattractive to other woman, quite the opposite really, but she hadn’t been privy to it before. Although she’d previously speculated that perhaps some of the village women may be harbouring discrete crushes on him, to be faced with the truth, of Din himself admitting this woman’s interest, she was unfamiliar with the way it made her skin crawl.

And she knew Din was probably even downplaying it, still very unaware of his own allure.

Jealousy, it was a useless emotion, and not very becoming to say the least. But even now, as he had dispelled any inklings of an intimate history with the woman, Omera still finds herself fuming.

To think that attachment and intimacy is not against his culture, she is surprised to learn that he had _no_ intimate history at all. But when considering his dedication to his tribe, as he had said, and general withdrawn behaviour, it made some sense.

Yet here she was basically throwing herself at him, and he’d be much too polite to offend her with rejection. Did he think of her as he did the other woman? That she didn’t respect personal space and was too forceful?

Where her stomach had turned in jealousy previously, it now churns with unease.

It was reassuring, however, that he seemed as affected by their chat as she was; cutting off his own words abruptly sometimes, and trailing off at others. She remembers thinking he never spoke without purpose, always having calculated what he would grace you with ahead of time. That assessment is only partly true since his return, and she hopes that perhaps it is a sign he is able to let his walls down a bit with her.

She can’t linger on those thoughts long, however, because when she crosses the threshold into her own hut, she finds Cara sitting at the table waiting for her. Cara is reclined, arms behind her head and ever-present smirk plastered on her face.

“So,” Cara drawls out teasingly, conscious of keeping her voice down so as not to wake Winta in the other room. “You were gone some time. What does ‘ _drop the child off’_ entail these days?”

The way Cara mimics her own words from earlier only makes her laugh quietly, she got Omera’s tone wholly wrong with that suggestive hint.

“You really are awful, you know?” Omera replies instead of answering her question, moving to sit across the table from her and pour herself a cup from the flagon.

“Well it’s not my fault you two make it so easy. What’d ya talk about?”

Omera pauses at her words and feels her blush returning as she finishes filling her cup and placing the flagon down. When she finally looks up at the other woman, she can see as Cara’s eyes widen in scandal and she sits bolt upright.

“Kriff, what _did_ you talk about? Something interesting obviously,” she asks, all ears.

“Well,” Omera begins, bringing the cup to her lips to wet her suddenly dry mouth then smiles. “Everything and nothing. His Creed, his son, Winta, my husband. The whole lot… Stars, and then he told me about a job he did with this woman, and I got all territorial and weird.”

She sighs and rests her forehead in a hand as she looks over at Cara with an embarrassed laugh. Cara only smiles wider, blinding teeth and perceptive eyes.

“You’ve got it bad, though not to worry, I’m fairly certain you are not alone,” Cara replies, taking a sip from her cup only to find it empty.

Omera merely shakes her head at the suggestion and tops up Cara’s cup from the flagon in front of her. Cara remains quiet but gives her a pointed look before pursing her lips in thought, “The new addition to the village is pretty chummy, isn’t he? He clearly holds a candle for you too.”

That nearly makes Omera choke on her drink and she looks over her cup at her in confusion.

“Who? Darq? He’s just being friendly, he acts the same with everyone,” she expresses, shocked that Cara had come to that conclusion. She herself had gathered that Darq was just a flirt by nature and refused to believe he viewed her as anything more than a friend. “There is nothing there I assure you.”

Cara lets out a snort and downs the rest of her cup, “You, my friend, are as blind as you are beautiful. Our Mandalorian may take matters into his own hands to ensure there really is nothing there if we’re not careful.”

The mention of Din makes her heart thud and she is momentarily distracted by the mental image Cara has created. Of Din being jealous and staking her as his own to Darq. She is instantly appalled at her train of thought, and even more so that she might have liked the idea. She respected both men more than that, and the idea that they would fight over her was completely absurd.

”Anyway, I’m gonna hit the hay, ‘night,” Cara calls her from her thoughts and retires for the night.

“Sleep well,” she smiles quickly, deciding to tip the rest of her cup out. Clearly the spotchka was getting to her again and she would really rather not repeat the drunken confessions she had made last time.

...

The next few days pass in the same quiet peace those first weeks after the raids had, and Din heals. Omera doesn’t waste her breath offering the bacta again, Din was much too stubborn and, true to his word, healed remarkably quick when his body was given the chance.

Similarly, he was a man that could not sit still.

He helped with washing up after the evening meal most nights but when she’d caught him attempting to haul baskets overfilled with krill away from the ponds, she had put her foot down. The other villagers reassured her sheepishly that they had tried to refuse his help too but were still pretty intimidated by him and didn’t enforce it. Eventually after much scolding, he had sighed and stopped trying, instead watching the children between their lessons to make sure they stayed out of trouble, and spending time at the gravesite. And Winta was never far behind, she had taken a real liking to the man. It had started before he left, but since returning she had grown very attached, though Omera knows she tries hard to hide it. Winta had never known her father, but would ask about him sometimes, what he was like, if he would have been proud of her. Those conversations broke her heart, but now they were mostly replaced with Din. Do you think he’d like this? Should I go see if he’s eaten? What do you think he’s doing right now?

It unsettles her to think how she could possibly pick up the pieces when they leave again, because surely that is inevitable. She found it hard enough to console herself the first time, and with each day the attachment only grows stronger. Winta’s heart was still too young to be broken by the father she never had.

The bond between the fearsome bounty hunter and his curious son also grew each day, and he confided in her that he’d shown his face, and taken to calling the child the equivalent of ‘little one’ in his own language. She had tried to repeat it, though fears she had butchered the language completely by the way he’d just nodded, spun on his heel and retreated within a matter of seconds.

Now, she is just finishing up with her harvest when she sees both father and son approach. She wades to the edge of the pond and smiles at the child on the ground then up at Din when they stop in front of her. He is silhouetted by the late afternoon sun and standing in his usual stance of hands tucked into belt. Recently he has been wearing less of his weapons around the village. Today his rifle and ammunition missing, though the blaster at his hip remains constant, and she imagines there are all kinds of weapons hidden on his person that she cannot begin to comprehend. She suddenly remembers their conversation the other night in the barn and how he had been wearing significantly less, no weapons _or_ armour bar his helmet. His frame was much slighter than she would have thought, the armour and under layers clearly bulking him out a fair amount, though she could tell he was all lean muscle and strength. The thin material of the pants and long sleeve he wore would be considered rather concealing if worn by anyone else, but left her a little breathless when thinking of the scrapes of skin she did see. His hands and lower arms had been one thing, startling her the first time when they washed the bowls at the creak. But she had seen his neck that night, the corded line of his throat and dips of his collarbones near the loose shirt collar. She had thought about that _a lot_ since then.

“That should do it for today,” she heaves, just barely having placed the basket down before it starts to tip forward and threaten to spill all her hard-earned krill.

She has a split second to feel embarrassed at her clumsiness while distracted by less than innocent things, before both her and Din are reaching to steady the basket. Neither of their hands touch it however, as the basket is suspended as is on an unnatural lean. She blinks her eyes clear, thinking maybe the sun of the day had gotten to her more than she’d realised.

“Well done, _ad’ika_ ,” Din murmurs, pride clear in his voice as he bends down to his son and pats his back. “Thank you.”

Omera watches with eyes wide as the basket settles back upright and slides a small way back so it is not at risk of toppling again. Her eyes snap to the child, little claws twitching then it slumps back against his father’s supporting hand and sends a questioning garble up to Din. Din responds with a low rumble in his language and although Omera cannot understand the words, she can clearly hear the tone of a proud parent praising their child.

“He does that sometimes,” Din says, drawing her attention from where she had been watching with equal parts amazement at the child’s ability, and fondness at the tender moment.

But where Din had given off the impression of only being proud a moment ago, he now seemed anxious, the lines of his body tense. And she suspects she knows why.

“I won’t tell a soul,” she whispers, looking deep into his visor to hopefully meet his eyes so he knows he can trust her.

She is surprised when he gives a curt nod, and a hesitant hand reaches towards her. She realises he is offering to help her out of the pond and has to physically stop herself from jumping at the chance. Instead she slowly takes his hand with measured pace and lends a grateful smile as he tugs her onto solid land.

She smiles her thanks and stutters when he picks up her basket to carry. She gives a laughing sigh and reaches down to pick up his son where the child is twisting his claws into her skirts. They begin back to the middle of the village, the child squealing happily when she hugs him close and cannot resist placing a gentle kiss to his brow. When she glances over to Din, she sees the tail end of his helmet’s movement to face forward, and she suspects he may have been watching.

Din leads the way to the shed around the back of the village hall and places the heaping basket on a barrel inside. The two women there smile their thanks and begin sorting through the krill, to which Din nods then sweeps his arm to gesture for Omera to exit first. She straightens her back and leads him out, reassured that there had been no lingering in the villager’s eyes or tell-tale flirtatious smile

...

Later that night after dinner, a birthday celebration is in full swing, drinking and dancing galore. She is sitting at a table with Din and Cara, a few others hanging around too. She is discussing the upcoming end of harvest and planning a trip into the town when Darq makes an appearance at her side. He offers his cup out in cheers, knocking it against the other’s cups before her own.

“Mind if I tag along?” he asks, wedging himself into the seat at her side. “I only stopped by there briefly on my way through so would like the chance to check it out again.”

Omera sends him a smile, though she cannot stop running through the conversation with Cara in her mind. Surely Cara had it wrong, his actions seemed only friendly and she got no inkling that this attention was any different from that which he gave to anyone else.

“Of course, I’ll show you around.”

“I look forward to it,” he smiles before engaging in conversation with the rest of the group to which Omera only half listens. She glances at Din out the corner of her eye. It is difficult to determine with the helmet, but nothing in his posture portrays a reaction to Darq, if anything he looks bored.

Darq had introduced himself to Din at the next available opportunity after that first night, and while Din had been polite enough, it was clear he had no time for Darq, not in the slightest. Darq had been his normal charming self, though she also sensed a tense undercurrent to his words. The way he shook Din’s hand slightly more curt than necessary and sent an incredulous stare around the small group when Din had declined to give his own name upon enquiry. She had shifted her weight from hip to hip to prevent herself from stamping on Darq’s foot when he’d asked. She had specifically mentioned on multiple occasions that Din did not give out his name, she even feigned ignorance and said she thought perhaps Mandalorian’s didn’t have names. Backed up only by the consideration that the child did not either.

It is safe to say that that first encounter had not feared well for Din and Darq in terms of their standing in the other’s eyes. Since then they hadn’t been openly hostile, but there was definitely a stifling tension surrounding the two.

Now when Darq asks her for a dance, she thinks nothing of it besides relief to be able to stretch her legs and distract herself from the dilemma. There are clusters of people dancing, and Omera and Darq join them, keeping a respectable distance between their bodies and changing partners when the dance deems necessary. There is clapping and cheering, everyone getting caught up in the rhythm of the music played.

All in all, it is very normal, and she thinks that yes, Cara had most definitely got it all wrong.

* * *

The next day Din finds himself in his usual spot by the gravesite, sitting back against a solid tree trunk and watching as the kid hops around, hands in the air trying to catch the odd miniscule insect buzzing around. There is a collection of pebbles near his little toes peeking out from under his robes, and he cycles between chasing the bugs and twirling the stones. Eventually he plonks down, wriggling to get comfortable and extending his hands towards the stack. Inquisitive eyes flicker up to Din’s helmet and he makes a soft trill as a couple of the stones begin to lift.

Din smiles beneath his helmet and sits forward, placing a reassuring hand on the kid’s head, “Very good, but you need to be careful who you do that around, understand?”

Abandoning his efforts, little hands reach up to tug at Din’s fingers and he butts his head up into Din’s hand in affection. Din ruffles the sparse hairs on top of his wrinkled head just as his hearing picks up on purposefully soft steps approaching the other side of the tree he leans on. He pauses with his hand on the kid’s head and slightly inclines his head to the sound. The heavy breathing gives her away, though he is impressed by her mostly quiet footfalls. The kid looks at him too and cocks his head, his big ears clearly having picked up the sound too.

“I can hear you, you know,” he smirks and is rewarded by Winta’s exaggerated whine as she slumps heavy footed out from behind the tree and throws herself down onto the ground in front of him.

“You’re cheating with the helmet, it’s probably got all kinds of tricks,” she complains, crossing her legs and leaning a dramatic elbow and chin.

He shrugs in response and watches as the kid finally notices his friend’s presence and toddles over, stones completely forgotten. Winta immediately bucks up and laughs as he settles into her lap, quietly content and tucking his little claws together as he takes in Din.

“Shouldn’t you be in lessons?” He says noting only workers out in the ponds and a clear absence of other kids.

“Nah, I skipped,” she shrugs, as if that was reason enough. “They won’t even notice.”

He blanks, hoping Omera doesn’t catch on and think he is a bad influence.

“I hate to break it to you kid, but this village ain’t exactly big enough for you to go unnoticed.”

She laughs at that, so reminiscent of her mother that a lump forms in his throat, “Old Nan is teaching us, she’s half deaf _and_ blind! We do our own thing anyway.”

He lets out a low chuckle before he can stop himself. He knew who she was referring to and he too had to admit she looked as if she was about to keel over.

“That’s not very nice, have some respect for your elders. What would your mother say if she could hear you?”

“Pfft,” she huffs but he can see the wicked glint in her eyes. “Probably the same.”

He shakes his head at her and can see she doesn’t take offence by giving him a toothy grin. She looks down at the kid who has just been quietly watching the exchange.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he points a stern finger to the kid. “I won’t have people thinking you’re dragged up too.”

Winta laughs again then avoids his gaze and picks at the grass, “We’re so happy you came back.”

“The kid missed everyone; he is quite a popular little thing.”

“So are you,” she blurts, pink colouring her cheeks but she grins through it anyway. “You’re pretty cool, like the coolest person we know actually. We all think it!”

He doesn’t know how to respond, let alone acknowledge that. He assumed the other kids were mostly still wary of him judging by the way they played near him, but never ventured too close. Winta had always displayed a certain curiosity around Din, and now knowing the circumstances of her birth, he realises she never grew up with a father. He isn’t stupid enough to believe he fills that void, but is surprised that the thought does not entirely frighten him as he once thought it might.

“Well… thank you,” he finishes lamely, his coolness score probably significantly plummeting after that.

“Wes and Teg drew all over the buckets by the well to look like your helmet. They were walking around stumbling into everything because they didn’t put holes for the eyes. They got in so much trouble!”

Din thinks back on when he’d retrieved water from the well last night, and the tin buckets had smudges of black running down their sides. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now he realises the smudges formed a ‘T’ just like the visor of his helmet. Huh.

“I have a favour to ask,” she abruptly states, giving him a serious look. He tilts his head in encouragement despite his shock and waits for her to continue.

“Mama is planning a trip to the town soon, and I really want to go, but she hasn’t let me since that time we all went. I don’t think she likes taking me alone.”

“Darq’s going, I heard them discussing it last night,” does it work how he tries to conceal the clip to his words.

“Y-yeah but…” she trails off and almost looks a bit frantic as she tries to gather her words. “But Mama will only let me come if you go, and she’d be so mad at me if she knew I asked you. Can you please ask to come? Pretty please?”

His chest puffs up without his permission at Winta’s words. That Omera trusted only him to escort them into town. That was what Winta was getting at, right?

“…okay. But no promises, got it?” He enforces, trying to act disinterested when he very clearly has much interest in the topic.

“Roger that!” She salutes, the earlier frazzled look gone in favour of mischief. “Hey, can we go on your ship again, stay the night?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, it would be too crowded with all of us,” he explains curtly, though it has more to do with not wanting to witness Omera and Darq together any more than he has to. Throw Garren into the mix when they visit town and it’s just asking for trouble.

A scheming glint appears in her eyes and she lowers her voice, shoulders hunching down even, “I could make sure he doesn’t come.”

“What are you, an assassin?” He scoffs, humoured by her tone and suggestion. But then it dawns on him that he probably should not be discussing the likes of assassins with a kid, let alone endorsing the idea.

“No, I’m a Mandalorian Bounty Hunter,” she scoffs back, flickering her hand that isn’t settled around the kid up from her hip and aiming a shot at him with an imaginary blaster. Warmth spreads throughout him at her display and he thinks it’s a little cute that she is mimicking him, even if she completely muddled the word ‘Mandalorian’ until it was only just recognisable.

How soft Sorgan was making him.

“Don’t let your mother see you do that, she won’t let you hang around me anymore.”

“No way! She likes you way too much to stop me,” she confesses, without knowing that such a confession just stoked the flames he already had burning for her mother. “And does that mean you _like_ me hanging around?”

He pauses in thought, watching as she gets more and more eager for his answer, “You’re slightly less annoying than the rest.”

She deflates, though he can tell she knows he is mostly joking, and she just pokes her tongue out at him.

“Mama was saying he doesn’t have a name,” she says shrugging at the kid in her arms, changing subjects again so quickly he thinks he’ll get whiplash. “How come you don’t name him?”

He clears his throat and sits up straighter, pulling his legs in to cross them too, “I’m sure he does have a name, but he can’t tell me it, not yet at least. In my culture we have a saying, _ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad_. It means ‘I know your name as my child’. He isn’t my true born son, but I am still his father and he is my family, he doesn’t need a name for that.”

When he finishes Winta remains silent, mouth agape and thoroughly enthralled.

“That’s so cool!” She gushes, grinning down at the kid when he chirps then turns to Din with a bland smile. “We call him Hank.”

“ _Hank?_ ” He deadpans, and even the kid looks at him unimpressed. “That’s awful. Look, even the kid thinks so.”

“I know!” She cracks up. “It is so bad! But Teg said it one day when we were trying to guess, and it was _sooo_ funny.”

She cannot contain her laughter and soon the kid is also squealing along in glee too. Din feels a rumble of laughter clawing up his chest too but clears his throat to stamp it down.

“What do you call him then?” Winta asks

“… _Ad’ika_ , it means little one, or child, in my language.”

“That’s much better than Hank.”

* * *

Omera approaches the porch outside her hut when she hears the treachery of her daughter and houseguest. Winta’s chittering words are easily distinguishable from Cara’s much deeper, but no less scheming, responses.

“What did he say exactly?” Cara is inquiring.

Winta pauses for a time before letting out a soft hum in thought before replying, “He said he’d do it, I can’t remember his exact words, but he promised.”

Just as Cara starts to sound as though she is saying ‘good’, Winta chimes in again, the tone of her voice high with anxiety. “Wait, no! He said ‘no promises’! Have I ruined it?”

Cara chuckles and it warms Omera’s heart to hear such affection, before her mood is ruined by remembering they are conspiring.

“You did good, don’t worry. He’ll take the bait–” Cara trails off as Omera clears her throat and rounds the corner into the hut.

“What have you two been up to?” She demands, hands on her hips.

Winta pales instantly and looks like she may be sick, Cara on the other hand appears to be playing dumb, though her mouth opening and closing like the krill they farm tells of her lack of a believable lie. Omera waits patiently with a pointed look so they know they will not be getting out of this without coming clean.

“Okay, okay!” Cara caves at the same time Winta apologises profusely. “We may have just been giving certain people a certain shove, nothing more. Besides, we were really doing it to fulfil your own daughter’s wishes.”

Omera tilts her head in confusion, their meddling must be pretty bad if Cara was trying to soften her anger with sympathy for Winta, “What are you talking about?”

Cara gives a shrug to Winta, whose pale face has transitioned into being tomato red, and takes a seat at the table.

“I figured if you were heading into town again, you should take our buddy with you. But I also figured you wouldn’t ask him, especially since Darq got in so quick, and he wouldn’t offer for the same reason,” Cara reports, as if that clarifies entirely what had transpired.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Omera declares, sitting too and Winta immediately settles into the seat at her side, scooting her chair closer and looking distraught. She places a comforting hand on her daughter’s back and gives a quick rub, the relief in Winta’s frame is instant.

“Sorry, kid, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” Cara apologises sincerely then continues on to Omera. “The only way around it was to get him to suggest he comes, and the only way he’d do that is if he knew Winta desperately wanted to go again, but you wouldn’t let her without him chaperoning. And a plan was born.”

“It’s the truth though, Mama. I do really want to go again,” Winta confesses, squeezing Omera’s hand. She squeezes back with a smile to let them know she isn’t truly mad, just a bit cautious of how she will face Din now.

“Thank you, I actually was hoping to find a way of him tagging along. For security reasons, of course. And muscle power.”

Cara’s mild apologetic look is quickly replaced with a sarcastic smirk at her response, letting Omera know that she doesn’t believe her for one second. Omera lets out an uncharacteristic groan and rubs her temple with her free hand.

“I wish I hadn’t heard your plan, how am I supposed to react when he asks now? Did he say he would?”

Cara laughs, and even Winta stifles a snigger at her mother’s expense, “Well, would you look at who's changed their tune? You should be thanking us,” Cara booms, throwing her arms wide.

“Thank you,” she mocks at the other woman with a roll of her eyes before turning to Winta. “And thank _you_ , but you must be careful when asking these things of our guest. He is much too kind and I’m afraid he would do anything we asked, even if he’d rather not.”

Cara snorts from across the table, “Trust me, he wants to go with you. You should have seen him when Darq volunteered, he was seething under that dome of his!”

What an interesting trip it would be with the both of them.

...

Since that conversation in her hut, she was on edge, subtly searching for his shining form everywhere she went, waiting for him to broach the subject. She felt just like a teenager again, not for the first time, having been told by her friends that her crush felt the same and was going to ask her out.

What a hopeless mess she was turning into.

When Din does find her, she is taken completely by surprise. It is early in the morning, long before the rest of the village awakens and even the sun has yet to make an appearance. She is sitting on a chair on the porch with a small lantern lighting the area, needle and thread in hand as she sews elaborate twists and knots onto the cuffs of a little teal robe. She had started the piece the day after they had arrived, seeing Din’s son in the same robe he had left in. She had held the child enough times since to get a rough estimate of what would be needed, and made it a bit bigger so that he may grow into it, however long that would take.

“Good morning,” his voice startles her, though she has the years of practice to avoid a sharp prick from the needle. She looks up from her seat to where he is standing at the foot of the porch, hands slung on his hips.

“Good morning. An early morning,” she returns with an inviting laugh, gesturing to the seat at her side. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He climbs the small set of steps, armour chinking as he does, and eases himself into the other chair with a sigh.

“I’ve slept better than I have in years, I’m used to running on less. I was going to the well to get water when I saw you here. You don’t normally rise this early.”

“Is that your assessment or a question?” She asks coyly, placing the fabric on a table at her side before crossing her legs and angling towards him. “Have you been watching me?”

He visibly appears to stammer, hands fidgeting at his knees, then as if a switch has flipped he settles back into the chair and crosses his ankles in the picture of leisure.

“I told you I watch you too,” he replies, looking out over the krill ponds and trying to look unaffected, as if he hadn’t just flirted with her. “I actually have a favour to ask of you.”

She isn’t prepared for his flirting, and is entirely giddy at the prospect. She knows her face is glowing red, but sees his gaze is locked ahead so she allows herself a shy smile into her lap.

“I’m all ears,” she tells him, trying to remember to act as if she doesn’t know what his request will be.

“I was wondering if you would be able to watch _ad’ika_ for an hour today,” he asks, completely not what she had expected. She fumbles for but a moment, but it is enough to cause alarm and Din turns to her, straightening from his reclined position. “I’m sorry to ask, I know the end of harvest is coming up. If another day suits better–”

“No! It’s fine,” she quickly reassures, reaching out to grab his hand. “I just wasn’t expecting it. I’d love to. I’m actually taking lessons today so it’s perfect. Any time.”

“Thank you,” he replies, and she feels his hand move very slightly, pushing into her own. She would almost think he was going to nudge her hand away, but the way he rotates it instead makes her feel as though it is an offering.

She wants to stay close, especially if he seems content with it, but finds her nerve shaken and backs away with a final squeeze to his fingers. She clears her throat and holds up the robe she had been working on for him to see.

“For your boy,” she explains. “I should be finished with it today.”

He reaches out and drifts his gloved fingers over the woven cuffs then tilts his helmet to look at her.

“Thank you, he will be very happy.”

She grins at him in response, and they sit there for a moment longer before he excuses himself to go check on the child that still sleeps in the barn.

He didn’t ask about travelling into town with her, and she tells herself to not feel disappointed, but instead pleased that he has asked this of her.

Eventually the sun rises with the rest of the village and the normal routines of a krill farm ensue. She is in the hall with the other children when Din comes through, child in one arm and a chrome contraption in the other. The kids instantly run to greet him, chattering away even though he only gives the bare minimum in response. She smiles widely and takes the boy, heart constricting at the little one. He is clearly happy to be in her arms, but sends his father a sad croon with concern written on his wrinkled forehead.

“It’s just for an hour,” he reassures, patting his small head and turning on his heel to exit.

The child gets over it quickly, seeing his friends, and Omera puts him on the ground to let them play for half an hour before making them get back to their lesson.

She works on the finishing touches of the child’s robe, keeping a careful eye as they run around.

“Whoa, look at him go!” One of the kids calls from her spot near one of the shutters to outside. The others join her and a chorus of amazement is all she can hear.

“Come watch, Mama!” Winta calls excitedly, frantically waving her over.

They have placed his son on a stool at the shutter so he can see out too, and he is screeching in joy as they all watch. The contraption Din had been holding was currently strapped to his back, bursts of flames expelled as he makes quick dashes up into the air, twirling this way and that, before landing securely. He does it continuously, taking a moment to correct his form before starting up again. Cara is near him, watching as he goes, hands cupping her mouth as she calls to him as if in instruction and encouragement.

Omera watches, like the children, utterly mesmerised by his movements, calculated and deliberate, yet held so much grace. She suspects it is a new technique for him, the way he seems to be completing drills, but she can tell just by watching that he was born to be an aerial fighter. At one point he lands and Cara jogs up to him, face alight with a grin, and slaps him on the back. From this distance even, she can see them both gushing, arms flailing as they speak animatedly about his last set.

Omera chuckles to herself, their friendship was surely an interesting one.

“Alright, back to lessons,” she tells the kids and they all grumble but begrudgingly back away from the window.

She sets the child up with some paper and charcoal, wondering if he knew what to do or if he’d try eat them. Clearly drawing was universal because he quickly selects a coloured piece and begins, legs splayed out and determination in his eye. She watches him for a moment, then gets back into the lesson with the other children, intermittently checking he is still occupied.

Between watching Din’s son, teaching the kids, and finishing off the robe, the hour passes quickly. Suddenly the child is chirping excitedly and she sees him jump up and run to the entrance where Din and Cara come waltzing in, still deep in conversation. Allowing father and son to have their reunion, she moves to tidy up the drawing supplies when she sees what he had so clearly been focussed on for the past hour.

The drawing is a crude arrangement of hard lines and smudged blobs, but the intent is clear. Heavy in greys, browns and black, it is without a doubt a drawing of his own father, a small little green bundle at the figure’s feet that could only be the child himself. There is a thickness in her throat upon tracing the lines with her eyes, but she almost feels as though she should avert them when she sees he is without a helmet in the drawing. She feels her face warm and her greedy eyes drink in the picture despite herself. Brown hair and eyes, he had told the truth.

She quickly folds the paper, not wishing for anyone to see it, and makes a mental note to pass it to Din later, when there are no prying eyes, as any parent would cherish such a gift. She tucks it into the folded robe she has finished and approaches the trio at the end of the hall, the child now content in his father’s arms again and Cara hefting the jetpack.

“You gave us quite the show,” Omera smiles as she steps up to them, ignoring the waggling of Cara’s eyebrows.

“Thank you for watching him, I’ve been needing to start my drills since I healed,” Din retorts, then tilts his head to what she holds, “You finished it?”

She nods with a smile and passes it to him. He adjusts his grip on the child and takes the offering as if it is something precious and not just the simple robe it was.

* * *

After completing his Rising Phoenix drills, Din is embarrassed to say he is pretty spent. He blames it on having taken it easy the last couple of days and not easing into the exercise. The kid had been tired too when he’d picked him up from Omera and by the time he had returned to the barn, the kid was asleep in his arms.

Din had tucked him straight into his crib to sleep and set about having a much needed wash after his exertions. It was only now, clean and armour polished, that he was getting the chance to unfold the new robe Omera had made for the little one. It was made of rough woven linen, tinged teal from the krill dye, but the inside was remarkably soft. Designs similar to the charms Omera weaves were decorating the cuffs. It was mostly similar to the one he already owned, just very slightly more roomy.

He doesn’t know how he is ever supposed to thank her properly. He could spend two lifetimes trying and it would never be enough.

Just as he shakes the robe out, a piece of folded paper flits to the floor, though he snatches it up before it has the chance. Puzzled, he unfolds it and scrunched his brows in confusion at what he is seeing. He turns it a couple of times, tilting his head at different angles, then his eyes snap wide with recognition. It was unmistakable now, to see what it was, and he feels himself get choked at the notion. He glances over to the sleeping kid, a small smile spreading his lips, and tucks the picture under the pillow on his own cot.

He is straightening back up when there is a quiet knock at the entrance to the barn.

“Come in,” he calls, and knows with almost complete certainty that it will be Omera.

She crosses the threshold with a tray in hand, filled to the brim with food, “I thought you might be hungry, I’ll leave it here for you.”

She places the tray on the bench by the entrance, noticing the kid in the crib with a light laugh. Din makes his way over to her as she turns to leave. He’d better do this now before he lost the nerve, and he couldn’t stand to see Winta’s disappointed face if he doesn’t.

“Wait,” he says softly, stopping in front of her. “When you next make your trip into town, I’d like to come. I need to top up my med kit on the Crest.”

He must be mistaken but he can almost swear he sees relief in Omera’s responding smile. She nods enthusiastically, “Of course. We will aim to go in the next couple of days.”

He gives a firm nod, his heart rate finally settling now that it was done. He wants her to stay, but cannot think of a topic of conversation to strike up that will delay her departure. She is looking at him inquisitively, and it turns out that he doesn’t need worry, she breaks the silence herself.

“Your armour always looks brand new. You said it is difficult to mark? It is lighter than any metal I have come across.”

“It is beskar,” he tells her, straightening his spine at the praise. “Mandalorian iron. No other armour would serve you better.”

She smiles at his explanation, eyes trailing the lines of his armour with enough intensity to make his stomach drop with nerves. But the more she looks impressed, the more he feels nauseated. It wasn’t uncommon, from time to time he would think of how he had obtained the armour and feel sickened with the memory. It had never been as strong as it was in this moment, when Omera looked at him as though she was in awe.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, turning away. “This was payment for his bounty, I got a whole camtono. I dropped him off, picked up my prize and had this armour forged. There was so much of it I even had weapons made.”

She looks shocked, and he should be happy, he was sick of living this lie, but he would miss feeling like someone really cared for him.

“I went back for him… but I bought this armour with his life. It is a debt I can never repay,” he continues, because why not rub salt in his own wounds? “I am so conflicted. I feel so much honour when I wear it, for Mandalorian culture, but also such disgrace with how I obtained it.”

Omera looks conflicted herself, but where he turns away from her, she steps into his line of sight again, looking deep into his visor.

“You cashed in and came back with reinforcements. Sounds like a good plan to me. I know the man you are, Din,” she reaches out a shaking hand and grabs his elbow, squeezing gently. “And you’re _good_. Far better than most.”

He can’t say anything to that, just swallow against the thick lump in his throat and close his hand around hers on his elbow. Her lips twitch into a smile at the contact and she rubs her thumb in soothing circles as he continues to keep a firm hold on her hand.

Her eyes turn serious and she slowly reaches her free hand up, never taking her eyes off his helmet. She stares so intently it feels as if the helmet is no barrier at all, and her palm skims the side of his helmet softly. His heart thumps in his ears, his own cheek tingling as if he can feel her warmth through the beskar. Despite his better judgement, he feels himself lean into the touch and the small laugh she gives is all breath.

Even more against his better judgement, he finds himself gravitating towards her. Her smile has now slipped from her face and she stares on, remaining so completely still he wonders if she is even breathing. He knows he isn’t.

Swallowing thickly he leans further towards her, her hand softly slipping off his helmet to settle on his pauldron with the movement. And then his helmeted forehead is resting gently against hers. He wonders what the heck he is doing, he had never done this before, but the sensation was making his knees tremble. She has closed her eyes by now and stays deathly still. He likes to think that it is because she knows this must be an important part of his culture. He watches her for a moment more before he two screws his eyes shut, willing his breathing to remain normal now that he draws breath again. He thinks the ache in his chest is only partly due to oxygen deprivation.

He doesn’t want to, but after probably too long, he begins to withdraw, straightening back from leaning into her. Only she follows, tipping up onto her toes and nuzzling her forehead back against his as he retreats, eyes still loosely closed.

The action has him choking on his breath and reaching for her blindly. He pulls her body up flush against his chest, both his hands on her elbows to hold her close. She lets out a quiet, breathy laugh through her teeth, clutching at him too, and opening her eyes to look deep into his visor.

They stare for a moment and this time they both withdraw at a measured pace, the tops of her cheekbones flooded with colour.

She smiles sweetly at him and he knows he is done for.

She has succeeded in breaching all the beskar, and she now holds a part of him he thought long frozen.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din contemplates his options, they make a trip into town, and something shady is going on!

Din hadn’t meant to pull her in, but when she’d reached up to press her forehead almost desperately back into his, he had little chance of stopping himself, or the groan that escaped him. Now he cannot will his feet to move, helmet a mere inch from Omera’s own forehead and she has a dazzled smile on her face. Her hands are curled firmly into both his biceps, wedged under the edges of the pauldrons, and the feeling of her blunt nails digging in even through the thick under armour is enough to make his knees weak. She is clutching at him with no indication of letting go. His hands are mostly the same, tucked around the backs of her elbows, and he fears what will happen if she lets go.

They stand this way for a moment and he is relieved to hear her own breathing sounds a little laboured. She speaks first, rocking back down onto her heels and wetting her lips, “I’ll leave you to eat.”

He hesitates, not trusting his voice, but a squeeze to his arms and her warm smile is all he needs, “Okay.”

She smiles wider and steps back, letting her grip slacken and hands trailing down his forearms as she does. She tucks her hands behind her as she backs away and soon she is turning and out the doorway.

He lets out a shaking breath once she has faded from view and rubs trembling hands down the sides of his legs. What had he been thinking? He was only coming here to rest up before embarking on the quest to find the kid’s own people. Looking over at the sleeping little one, he feels himself ripped in two thinking of having to give him up, but also wanting the kid to know his people and be accepted back by them. How was he supposed to handle that, when his heart already felt fractured with the thought of leaving Sorgan. The life of a bounty hunter was nomadic, and the covert had not yet found a place suitable to be called home. It had always been the Way, and he’d accepted that was how his life would remain. But when Omera had painted the picture of raising the kid here, she had both saved and cursed him within one sentence. It could never be, but he desperately wished it could.

Din had also accepted he would spend his life atoning for his mistakes with taking the bounty, but he didn’t think about the other lives he might ruin along the way.

Omera didn’t deserve him waltzing in and out of her life like this, and he knew Winta’s attachment to the kid had only grown. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he thinks maybe she’s become attached to him too. He didn’t want to drag them into this, but he didn’t know how to do it alone.

When had everything gotten so complicated?

And now he’d given her a _kov’nyn_. He was surely going to hell once this life was done messing with him.

...

The next day they are loading up the repulsorlift speeder and getting things in order to travel into town. Winta has resumed her role of chief kid supervisor and comfort control, and walks around inspecting their transport with a keen eye, making improvements as she goes.

The kid had made a beeline for her as soon as they’d rounded the well and her frantic pacing came into view.

Din approaches much more reasonably and unslings his rifle from his back to place on the speeder as Omera steps up beside him. From where he stands he can already feel a magnetic pull towards her, as if because of yesterday his body now sought her comfort constantly.

“Good morning,” she whispers quietly, though there is no lack of warmth in it. From his periphery he can see her wringing her hands together and he wonders if it is to stop herself from reaching for his hand, as he has his firmly hooked into his belt for the same reason. “We missed you at dinner last night.”

She sounds slightly anxious and he only now thinks of how it must seem that he and the kid hadn’t left the barn again since their moment. He wants to kick himself for his insensitivity, he was not cut out for this.

“We were tired, sorry. I should have told you,” he says truthfully. After she’d left, he had woken the kid to eat, filled the basin for him to splash around in then dressed him in his new robes. The exercise had been wholly exhausting itself, even if the drills hadn’t wiped him out, as the kid had suddenly got a burst of energy and was determined to have Din take a bath too.

“Don’t apologise,” she smiles, turning to him and placing a familiar hand on his arm. “I just thought you might be avoiding me.”

“I couldn’t, not now. Even if I wanted to,” he murmurs back, moving subtly closer and pressing his arm further into the comfort of her hand. He hopes she understands what he can’t say, and doesn’t take his statement the wrong way.

The heat from her body washes over him as she too leans very slightly closer, the movements so minute that they would go unwitnessed by anyone who isn’t as in-tune with her movements as he is. But obviously Darq is, because he approaches obnoxiously quickly with a morning greeting.

“Shall we get going then?” He asks, to which Omera gives Din’s arm a final squeeze before nodding to Darq and heading around to the end of the speeder.

He is sure Omera has the kindest soul in all the galaxy, but he sometimes wishes she’d put Darq in his place. She is only ever politely friendly, absolutely not anything beyond that, yet Darq crowds her constantly as if she has declared herself his.

Din lets out a barely restrained sigh and follows, waiting for Winta’s strict instructions on where he is to sit. Like last time, she has spread a thick blanket out on the remaining floor of the speeder, small stacks of spare blankets dotted around. Once they are all loaded in accordingly, the speeder lurches forward and begins their journey.

Winta is rambling excitedly about all the stalls she wants to look at in town when Omera glances at him with an amused smile, adjusting her position to get comfortable. He is acutely aware that by doing so, she shuffles ever so slightly closer, her long hair swishing along their seating and brushing where his leg is extended. Winta has strategically placed them in a rough circle, and he is glad she has positioned himself at Omera’s other side instead of Darq.

The kid can’t decide where to sit. First scrambling onto his lap, then spotting Omera at his left and lunging to her with such force that she has to reach out to catch him before he face plants. He squeals when she sweeps him up to her face and nuzzles his cheek, and Din instantly feels a knot twist deep in his belly.

Halfway through the motion her eyes suddenly widen and snap to Din’s helmet when she gives a shy smile. Her cheeks redden and the kid’s little hand settles on one as she withdraws. He thinks maybe she is reminded of last night, he knows he certainly is and is suddenly uncomfortable in front of anyone but her, especially her own daughter and his son.

He watches as she lowers the kid down, and he stumbles over to Winta who is more than happy to sit with him and go through a basket of toys she had packed for him. The way Omera doesn’t divert her eyes and seems to stare straight through the beskar makes him feel immediately too hot, his cloak feeling suffocating, and he wants nothing more than to close the distance so she may nuzzle him too. In a much different way than she had clearly done with the little one, but witnessing that, her embracing his son as she would her own, has only made the impulse stronger.

“So what’s his name? Or is that a secret too?” Darq asks, not unkindly but it still gets Din’s back up. Din is sure the man is not intentionally awful, and even feels a bit bad for the hatred that swirls inside him when looking at him, but just has an unfortunate way with his words. With other men at least. No, Darq was definitely fine talking to women.

“I call him _ad’ika_ ,” Din says, trying to keep the shortness from his tone but knows he fails. At his nickname, the kid looks to him with a happy croon, gathering his feet under him as he begins to stand.

The kid clearly thought he was being called over, so Din reaches forward and pats his head reassuringly. Murmuring lowly in Mando’a that it is okay, he should stay with Winta, and this guy was just an idiot.

Although the kid hasn’t displayed anything to suggest he understands what Din says, whether Mando’a or Basic, he thinks he gets the gist of most things somehow. Content, the kid sits back down, gives a happy chirp to Din and turns back to playing with the toys.

“That’s an interesting name,” the other man replies, and something in his tone just sets Din off. The worst part is he knows he is overreacting, but he is fiercely protective of the kid and equally provoked by anything Darq has to say.

“So is Darq,” Din counters, thoroughly disinterested in this conversation, and leans back casually on the railing of the speeder.

Omera clears her throat as she tries to conceal her surprised snort and turns to Winta to change the topic. He waits for Winta to chime in with the other kid’s horrendous name for the little one, but she clearly hasn’t been paying attention.

Winta hauls a heavy basket out from behind her when asked by her mother and starts unloading all its contents.

“It’s nice that you speak to him in your language,” Omera smiles at Din and hands a small parcel of food to Darq.

“What?!” Winta suddenly cries, food stopped midway to her own gaping mouth. “Did I miss it? No fair, I never get to hear you. It sounds so cool!”

Din feels much prouder of Winta’s approval than he should.

“It’s a shame you can’t eat with us,” Darq adds, completely out of nowhere, settling himself in and keeping his eyes trained on Din’s helmet. Din himself knows he has a limited knowledge of social cues, but even that seemed abrupt to him.

“Winta brought food out to the barn for me before we left,” he replies, and tries to keep the smug lilt out of his voice. He keeps his helmet steady, but snaps his eyes to Winta. She is grinning madly, beaming at the recognition, but is also looking into her lap as her cheeks flush pink.

Din only has a moment to feel cocky, because then they start passing the pouch of water around. He remembers how he had been mesmerised watching Omera drink from it last time, and this time when she does it, he gets the same stifling, suffocating sensation and stab low in his gut as just before. Winta has already had a sip, and now Omera passes it to Darq.

Din instantly goes cold, and he realises Darq is going to put his lips where Omera’s have been. This scenario had crossed his mind when they had done their last trip, and then he’d felt inexplicably drawn to take a deep pull from the pouch, merely to touch where her lips had.

And now Darq got to.

The galaxy could be so cruel.

He looks away as Darq drinks, instead watching Winta feed the kid with undying patience and care even as he gets overly excited with each mouthful, little arms flailing.

It was going to be a long trip. Last time it had passed surprisingly quickly, easy chatter between him and Omera and even easier silence. But now Darq occupied most of the conversation, seemingly uncomfortable when not filling the quiet with his insistent twaddling. He’d give the village children a run for their credits. He boasts about his endeavours before coming to Sorgan, though he seems to leave out the part where his business fell through. Perhaps he didn’t know Omera had told Din that. Din bites his tongue when the man begins to tell him all the trials and tribulations of a wandering life, as if a bounty hunter did not know this, and a Mandalorian one to top it off. Thankfully he can dull the audio feed into his helmet, so he does and shuts his eyes to rest.

He spends most of the trip in a half state between waking and sleep, stirring slightly when the kid crawls into his lap to curl up and rest his eyes too. And eventually they are nearing town, Winta noticing first and scrambling along the speeder to get a better look. She is so distracted in her haste that she stumbles over his outstretched legs and goes careening. Din, roused from sleep immediately, quickly reaches up to steady her by the tops of her arms before she can fully collapse on top of him.

“Sorry,” she laughs shyly, correcting herself and smoothing out her dress.

He tips his head in acknowledgement and turns the audio back up having mostly relied on lip reading to catch her apology.

“Do you want to stretch your legs? We can probably outrun this speeder anyway,” he asks an excited Winta, brimming with energy at the prospect of being let out early. Din turns to Omera for permission. “I’ll go ahead with her if you want to say with the speeder.”

Omera gives a stunning smile and turns to her daughter, “What do you say Winta? That is a very generous offer.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She chimes, grinning quickly and grabbing his hand in both of hers to haul him up. And he lets her, taking most of his own weight but letting her think she is doing all the work.

Omera stops the speeder briefly and he swings himself down before reaching up to lift Winta down too. He is surprised how naturally looking out for Winta and helping her comes to him. Clipping his rifle back over his back and gathering the kid in his arm he nods to Omera.

Winta takes off down the dirt road in a gangly run and Din keeps a watchful eye, the hand that isn’t clutching the kid to his chest resting on his blaster for reassurance. He maintains a quick power walk, which quickly outdoes the speeder and is about to consider jogging to catch up to Winta when she looks over her shoulder and bounces back to him. She circles around him and then runs ahead again, but never goes too far. He can tell she is overly happy to be able to run around and reach town before the others, but never rushes him on.

He thinks that if he can even do half as good a job raising the kid as Omera has with Winta, he could die happy. As soon as the thought has made itself known in his mind, his chest tightens, and he holds the little one a bit closer. Din probably won’t get the chance to raise him, not if he succeeds in returning him to his own kind. He pushes the notion away and quickens his pace.

They arrive into town much quicker than the speeder and Din follows Winta quietly as she runs from stall to stall, inspecting all the is on offer. He doesn’t miss how she keeps checking to make sure he is close by, even tugging on his cloak to get his attention and dragging him over to particular stands to show him things. The kid watches, eyes wide, garbling continuously.

They arrive at a stand selling various knifes and blades, and Din redirects Winta when her eyes light up and grabby fingers reach to inspect the wares.

“Nope, kid, we aren’t looking at those on my watch,” he tells her, a guiding hand to her shoulder directing her back the way they came.

“Aww come on!” she whines, though it is half-heartedly, and she continues to dance along at his side. “They were cool! I bet you have some just like them hiding somewhere.”

“I don’t think your mother would approve.”

Winta grins up at him then sees where Omera and Darq are just arriving with the speeder. “I couldn’t stop Darq from coming,” she confesses, nose screwed up as she looks into Din’s helmet.

He is startled by her statement, and even more so by the way she looks genuinely disappointed, “You tried?”

“Well… no,” she confesses, brow scrunching into a frown and looking anywhere but at him. “Mama told me you were coming, and I was so happy, I kinda just forgot.”

His steps falter for a second at her admission, but he tries to continue forward as if nothing happened. Winta was _happy_ for him to be there? Surely, she just meant that by him coming, she would be allowed to as well. Despite a sound rationale for what she said, he still finds himself hoping it was because she wanted him there. Clearly it was not just Omera that was making him soft, her daughter was slowly thawing his heart too.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice, and he realises that he has taken too long to respond, and just like her mother, she assumes he is unimpressed. Before he can set her mind at ease she continues. “I don’t like the way he talks to you; he is so… snippy. Like when we had the food before.”

Din lets a small laugh escape at her tone and describing Darq as ‘snippy’, he thinks it probably is an accurate assessment.

“Don’t worry about me, kid, I can handle it.”

“Of course you can!” she cheers, bouncing around him to his other side. “No one would ever mess with you!”

He hopes he never has to prove her expectations wrong, because in all honesty, he has had his ass handed to him on far too many occasions recently. He tips his head down at her waiting gaze and she lets out a giggle before racing over to the speeder.

Darq has already climbed down and offers a hand to Omera as she approaches the edge. Din watches with satisfied glee as she waves his hand off, be it politely, and climbs down herself. Winta careens into her side in a quick embrace, and Omera looks over to his approach, a shy smile on her face that suggests maybe she had missed him too in their very short time apart.

He is getting attached pretty quickly, and he had thought the notion would concern him, but it doesn’t. He had thought about it a lot last night. Everything had gone wrong for him the minute he had decided to leave Sorgan that first time. He is not normally one to believe in fate, but maybe he should never have left in the first place. He knows he has an obligation to his foundling, to return him to his own people, if they are still out there. But once that is done, he thinks he may need to return to Sorgan to ease the ache of loss. But none of those thoughts were needed now, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

They follow the same game plan as last time, deciding to trade the barrels of spotchka first to get them out of the way, then the dyes and oils at the stall on the other end of the market. He kneels to set the kid down at Winta’s side where she is picking wildflowers at the road edge by the speeder. He quickly rumbles out instructions in Mando’a to the kid, of behaving himself and listening to Winta, before straightening back up.

“What did you say?” she asks excitedly, finishing off a garland of the wildflowers and setting it on top of the kid’s head. In response the kid giggles, surprisingly gentle claws coming up to pat around his head. Once again Din is convinced the kid knows more than he lets on.

“I told him to be good and listen to you. You’re in charge,” he replies watching as the kid grabs handfuls of flower stems from the ground to pass to Winta.

“I thought I heard my name,” Winta beams, clearly happy to be trusted with this responsibility and gives a nod that makes him think she is mimicking his normal response.

Satisfied, he straightens back to standing, knees popping with the movement but not causing him any pain like he has become accustomed too.

“Stay by the speeder,” he reconfirms, even though he knows Omera had already told her, and begins towards the tent Omera and Darq just entered.

“Yes, _Mama_ ,” Winta calls back, emphasising the title in good nature. “Wait! You’re a man, so it should be _Dad_ –”

She stops abruptly, and he does too. She clearly hadn’t realised what she was saying until the words had slipped from her lips. He looks back over his shoulder at her, but sees she has her head down focussed on the garland she makes intently, though the crimson of her cheeks foils her plan of acting as if she hadn’t said anything. The kid merely sits there blinking between the two of them. He doesn’t know how to deal with this, for calling someone ‘Dad’ must be as foreign to her as it is for him to be called it.

When it becomes clear that she isn’t going to say anything further, or even acknowledge him, he continues to make his way to the tent, face most likely as red as her own.

He passes through the entrance to the tent and sees Omera discussing business with a cheery Garren, and a fuming Darq is at the sidelines. He hopes his dislike of Garren hadn’t been so obvious, but at least he had his helmet to hide the scowl and murderous look. He clears his throat to mask his chuckle and they all look over to him.

“Ah! You’ve returned, my friend!” Garren calls in greeting, arms thrown wide. “It is good to see you again.”

Din gives him a nod and shakes his hand when offered. It strikes him again that Garren is a nice man, and does not deserve Din’s hatred. The only thing Din had against the man was his interest in Omera, he can at least acknowledge that now. And he could hardly blame him, Omera had drawn _him_ in, someone who had never been interested in anyone before.

Garren was kind and open, whereas he got the sense that there was more to Darq than he let on. And he also just genuinely didn’t like the way Darq looked at Omera, like she was his or just some prize.

This outing would be the end of him if he didn’t ignore Darq. He found himself to be pretty level-headed normally and not quick to anger, but this man was bringing out all the worst in him. Din banishes Darq from his thoughts and waits for the all clear to start unloading the barrels.

Once done, they go about making their other trades after having collected the kids from the speeder. By now Winta has a flower garland to match the little one’s and she carries him on her hip as if she really is his big sister. She walks ahead of Din with her Omera, talking excitedly and her mother commenting on the flowers with a gentle caress.

Din thinks the flowers growing at the gravesite would make an even better garland, even imagines threading them through Omera’s hair with gentle hands in the late afternoon sun. He shakes the thought from his head, not even sure where it had come from.

They eventually come to a small building where they can get medical supplies, and Din goes in to retrieve the basics. Though the stock is limited and very simple, it’ll do. Omera walks to his side as Winta chatters away happily at the kid, him garbling in response as if he understands every word. Darq is thankfully out of sight and Din takes the small moment of reprieve to pretend that he had come here with just Omera and Winta.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Omera quietly asks, an amused smirk on his lips and mischief in her eyes. That is where Winta gets it from.

“Hmm,” he encourages, trying to ignore the impulse to lean into her. She is so close, shoulder brushing his and angling her head so close to his own to speak that she is almost butting up against him. He wants to bump her head gently with his own, but refrains, instead gently doing so with their shoulders, a small compensation. “Go ahead.”

“What did you say before, on the speeder to your boy?” she asks, leaning back to take in his visor as if she can read it like you would someone’s facial expressions.

Din thinks back, unsure what she means, but then remembers. He slips into speaking Mando’a so easily that he doesn’t always realise he’s done it. At the memory he doesn’t understand the amused look in her eye.

“He must have heard me say his name, and thought I was calling him over. So I told him it was okay, and that he could stay with Winta,” he explains, it all seemed pretty uninteresting, but then he too lets out a huff of a laugh as he remembers the last part. “And that Darq was an idiot.”

Omera laughs quietly behind her hand and pats a hand to his arm, “I thought it sounded like an insult. I told you I’ve gotten good at reading you.”

He laughs too and turns to face her, emboldened that she doesn’t step back even though they are standing much too close for normal circumstances.

“How do you say it?” she asks, head cocked to the side quizzically.

“ _Di’kut_ ,” he elaborates and watches as her mouth follows the word. “Idiot.”

“ _Di’kut_?” she repeats, eyes closed in concentration.

“That’s it,” he confirms thickly, just as Winta bounds up to check out what they’re looking at.

Omera steps back with a conspiring brow lift, and he tries to act as if that doesn’t affect him as much as it does. They make their purchases and leave to catch up with Darq again.

Eventually Winta’s stomach grumbling helps them decide that it is probably time to get some food, so they head to the cantina for a meal. Omera once again orders an extra portion for him that they can take away and before long the food arrives, and they all dig in.

He wonders if it is just his instinct as a bounty hunter, or that the rest of them are just too distracted eating to notice, but a table of three men sitting on the other side of the cantina seem wholly too interested in their little group. They are watching, subtly he will admit, but their glances definitely linger for longer than appropriate in passing curiosity. They do not seem particularly interested in either himself or the kid, but he still scoots his stool back so he can get up quickly if they start anything.

When Winta is the last one eating and declares herself finished, he is relieved to be able to leave. He takes up the rear, having Winta hold the kid and resting his hand on his blaster as they exit. The men once again follow their movement with their eyes and then turn to murmur something lowly amongst themselves, but even Din’s helmet audio cannot pick up their words. They don’t leave their seats however, and Din takes that as a good sign, though still ushers Omera and Winta along, nonetheless. He doesn’t really care what Darq does.

They stop in at a few other stalls, much to Din’s dismay, he just wants to leave. He doesn’t want to worry Omera, so he bites his tongue and keeps close. Winta is drawn to a tent where an older woman is retelling stories and adventures, tables lined with various books and scriptures. The woman clearly recognises Omera, and finishes up her tale so that she can approach them. She smiles warmly when she stops in front of them, taking Omera’s hand in both of hers. They exchange pleasantries but Din is much too conscious of their surroundings to pay proper attention.

“Now I see why you were so curious about a particular culture,” the older women suggests, and that draws his attention.

Omera looks extremely uncomfortable and gives the woman a stern look. She merely chortles, bids them goodbye and retreats further into the tent. Omera clears her throat and hurries them on, pointedly avoiding looking in Din’s direction. He wishes he wasn’t so on edge about that group of men so that he could appreciate that maybe Omera had previously been asking about _his_ culture.

They finally finish up all their plans for being in town and load back onto the speeder. Din hasn’t seen the men again but doesn’t fully relax until they are back on the road and the town fades from view. It has been a long day, but Winta shows no sign of resting even as the little one grumbles, eyelids heavy and drooping.

“So, we really can’t stop at your ship?” Winta asks, a hopeful glint in her eye as she looks at him intently.

“Don’t fall for that look,” Omera laughs lightly, twirling a lock of her daughter’s hair lovingly. “She uses it well.”

Winta turns to give her mother a toothy grin and Din is relieved to be free from her gaze; that look is truly lethal.

“Please?” she continues, and _kriff_ , the look is back.

Din turns away from her gaze, fiddles with the kid’s robe as an excuse to not look at her, “No, not this time. I’ll take you another time if it is alright with your mother.”

And from his periphery he sees Winta glance back to Omera in question, thankfully he is not held captive again, but he does feel slight guilt at bringing it upon Omera. Angled towards the kid still, he sees from the corner of his eye as Omera nods in agreement and sends him an equally loving smile, one that he suspects she doesn’t know he catches. All the while Darq sits to the side, mouth opening and closing comically as he tries to find a place to interject.

“And what about your jetpack?!” Winta calls, commandeering the conversation once more.

He looks to her alarmed, _what about it_? Surely she doesn’t expect him to let her use it.

“Take me for a ride! It looks so fun!” she exclaims when he doesn’t catch on, jumping to her feet and waving her hands around this way and that in what he assumes is her rendition of his drills. She stumbles with the lurching of the speeder and laughs as she plonks back down, flinging her wild hair back from her beaming face.

“…Maybe,” he placates, tucking the drowsy kid into his side to get comfortable. “I need to get better, I have only just begun my drills. It is very dangerous.”

“But you were amazing! He can take me, right?” Winta rushes, waiting for Omera’s approval but not taking her eyes off his helmet. He can hear Omera’s concern even though she hasn’t said a word and glancing at her he sees she is worrying her lip with her teeth.

He tries to not take offense at her hesitance, after all they were discussing her own daughter being flung around high above the ground by a fiery jetpack, his arms the only thing keeping her from falling. He supposes the fact that she doesn’t outright refuse means she trusts him more than he deserves.

“It’ll be fine, Mama. You saw how good he was. And he’s so strong,” Winta argues, pleading her case and stroking his ego in the same breath. She truly thought so highly of him. “He could take you first… yeah! Then you’d know I would be safe.”

Din’s breath hitches at the thought, and Omera looks as if she barely escaped choking at the suggestion too. His gut coils at the thought, skin tingling and fingers twitching. Imagining holding her tight as they swoop through the air, how she’d cling to him, like she had yesterday only _more_. Omera is looking at him, eyes suddenly holding something that wasn’t there before. Now that Winta has suggested it, he thinks he wants that quite a bit, nearly as much as he wants to pull her in and place his helmet against her forehead.

“I think that would be pretty impossible, Winta,” Darq adds, chucking in a way that seems almost condescending and has Din’s fists tightening. He didn’t like him discounting Winta’s musings.

“I don’t mind,” Din quickly confirms, cutting off Darq as he is about to add something. “Once I’ve trained more.”

Winta cheers, settling back down now that she’d gotten her way for the most part.

“We’ll see,” Omera tells her daughter, rolling her eyes at Din with an incredulous smile at her daughter’s antics. But he can see the pride that shines through.

He tips his head in acknowledgement and wishes she could see the smile he returns. But the heat in her gaze will haunt him for some time, and he fears without the helmet she would see it mirrored in his own eyes.

With the matter settled, they make small talk throughout the rest of the trip. Darq is seemingly put in his place as he does not make attempts to steer the conversation again, only adding where appropriate and even sitting in silence when the conversation lulls.

* * *

They make it back to the village and have unloaded their purchased goods just before nightfall. It is a quiet night; everyone having spent a long day in the ponds as is customary after a big harvest. Truth be told, Omera is exhausted from the trip, finding it equally as tiring as a day working the ponds. Sleep finds her easily that night and even Cara lets up on her insistent teasing, though she hasn’t mentioned what happened in the barn with Din the other day. If she knew of that, there would be no telling how long she would ridicule Omera for.

No, she would have to be a _di’kut_ to mention that yet, but a part of her also wants to gush like a a younger woman would do to their best friend.

It is after breakfast the next day, Winta has gone to her lessons and Omera just means to stop in to drop Din off some food where she can hear him in the barn. She deliberately lets her steps creak the boards on the porch to announce her approach.

“Knock, knock,” she softly calls, rounding the corner and keeping her eyes downcast just in case. A silly notion as she knows he is very careful, never without his helmet unless he is literally barricaded in. He is standing at the bench, sorting through the med supplies he had bought the previous day when he looks up at her approach. He had been in full armour this morning when he’d brought his son in for the morning meal, but now she sees it has been removed and stacked neatly to the side. His weapons are laid out too so she assumes he must be tuning everything.

“Hey,” he replies, hands stilling their work and turning to lean against the bench as she steps in.

She smiles and indicates to the tray in her hands as she sets it on the table, not needing words at this stage.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, stepping over to the table too.

Heat prickles up her spine at the proximity and her eyes catch the sleeping child in his post breakfast nap. She wanders over to the crib and smooths a gentle hand along the blanket swaddled around him. Her stomach flutters at the thought of Din concentrating with his full attention on wrapping the child up warm, tucking his little arms in and settling him to sleep.

“The robe fits him well,” Din rumbles, voice gravely in its low tone, but the tenderness he feels for his son is so clear. “He loves it. Though I had to wrestle him into it the first time.”

She huffs a small laugh at that, she’d never seen the little one be anything but precious, but some would also say that about Winta and she surely had her moments. She notices the chain of wildflowers Winta had made hanging over the crib edge, now significantly wilted, and she is touched that he has kept it.

Throughout her inspection he has remained in the same spot, and she realises this is the first time they are alone since the other day. She is suddenly nervous, feels a slight tremor in her hands, but turns to him anyway. He is still by the table, and she takes the few paces back to the entrance, means to tell him she will leave him to eat. But the words dry up when he makes his way towards her.

She wants to laugh at how ridiculous this feels, how they tip toe around each other. She takes a deep breath and moves away from the door to stand a couple of feet before him.

“Thank you for coming into town with us,” she whispers after looking into his visor, trying to get a glimpse of what he might be thinking, but the helmet is an impenetrable as ever.

He doesn’t return any words, merely tips his head slowly, and she thinks he seems as though he is on the edge of making the next move too. She banishes doubt and reaches forward, sliding her hands up his forearms to settle over the swell of muscle below his shoulders. She feels greedy, wanting to touch as much of him as she can while the armour is gone, and she is glad to know that while his helmet is a roadblock, the rest of him makes up for it. The bodysuit it thick and coarse but she revels in the clear reaction he has to her touch, muscles spasming and jumping at each move. He stands rigid, arms braced at his sides unmoving aside from the tremor.

Slowly, giving him time to back away if he so wishes, she rocks up onto her toes and softly touches her forehead to his helmet, nose brushing the front of the visor too. She closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath but then realises that probably fogged up his vision. She barely has time to be concerned because he is pushing back against her gently. He doesn’t move his hands to hold her, but she can feel his whole body trembling, then he suddenly releases a pained sigh.

A grunted string of words in his language escape him quietly, and although the language is beautiful, there is definitely tension behind whatever he had said. He moves back barely an inch and she gets the feeling he is examining her face closely. She opens her eyes and feels a nervous smile curl her lips.

“What did you say?” she whispers, lowering to her heels but not moving away.

“Nothing that should be repeated,” he mutters, and she sees how he hesitates, even thinks she can hear him swallow, imagines him wetting his lips before continuing. “I was swearing, sorry.”

“Oh,” she lets slips before she can hold it in, suddenly feeling embarrassed and withdrawing her hands from him. “… am I doing this wrong? Was it bad?”

“No! Not at all,” he hurriedly corrects, seizing her hands in his own quickly, but dropping them the next second as if he isn’t sure what to do with them. “The opposite actually. You know I’ve never…?”

As he trails off, she feels her face heat, she remembers that conversation very well.

“Well before now, I’ve never done even this either,” he confesses and moves a hand to rub absently at the back of his neck.

Her stomach flips at his admission, and she feels encouraged that this is all new to him too. Even though she has experience in the past, everything still felt so new. She supposes it has just been a long time.

When it becomes clear that he pulled away not because of anything bad, she steps back close, taking his hands in hers and nuzzling her head against his own gently, “And what is this?”

His breathing hitches but he doesn’t move away, even nuzzles back the tiniest bit that has her heart pounding, “ _Kov’nyn_ … it is Mando’a. In this context it’s a kiss.”

She had expected as much, but hearing him say the word ‘kiss’ was doing strange things to her, “Kiss as in how you’d kiss a friend or…”

“Yes. It is done for many reasons, even in battle to injure,” he confirms then pauses briefly, but continues before she can feel disappointment creeping in. “But the reason I’m doing it… well, I wouldn’t do that with Cara. And you wouldn’t with Winta.”

Omera groans, a guttural sound she didn’t even know she was capable of making and squeezes his hands tight, presses her warm face into his shoulder. “Stars, I want to kiss you in every way possible. I _want_ you in every way possible.”

The words are out before she can really comprehend them, but it is wishful thinking that her face pressed to him has muffled the utterance from his ears. He has gone still again and must be uncomfortable with what she’d stupidly let slip. _Di’kut_.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, stepping back from him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

This time when he reaches for her hands again, he doesn’t drop them, instead he draws them closer, brings them to rest on his chest. She is so surprised at the bold move that she cannot think of any words to say and her fingers twist into the fabric of his body suit as he shakes his head.

“It is just new for me. You say things like that, and my body reacts,” he confesses quietly, letting out his own shaking breath. “I feel like an adolescent again.”

She laughs out loud at that, how his thoughts so very closely are mirroring her own in that regard. Her cheeks are still burning and in some part of her clouded mind she thinks stepping closer will somehow make it better. “You make me feel like a teenager again, so I’m glad your body reacts. I’ve thought about how your body might react more times than I’d like to admit.”

It is his turn to groan and the sound of it bouncing off his helmet stirs her stomach tightly. His hands skim from her own on his chest to the backs of her arms, clutching her tightly and backing her up a step until she feels the wall behind her.

She gasps as he follows her, dipping his helmet to her forehead again. She is so overwhelmed she can barely think beyond anything but wanting his body closer, so her hands flit down, running over his chest and abdomen and circling around to his lower back. A quick pull has him colliding against her on the wall, she gasps, and he hisses as every inch of their bodies connect. She had screwed her eyes shut in the process but now they snap open, staring into the visor and seeing her own face, eyes dark and hair dishevelled.

And suddenly Cara comes waltzing through the entrance at their side, it takes a second for her to see them, but it is not enough time for them to spring apart. Cara smirks as Din stumbles back.

“Why do I get the feeling I arrived just in the nick of time to save your virtue, Din?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara interrupts, they have some visitors to the village, and Omera makes an offer!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would wait until tomorrow to post this, just to say May the 4th be with you! But I couldn't wait :D  
> Also, who else is super excited for the BTS series?! At least to tide us over until season 2!

Din stumbles back from her just as quickly as she drops her hands from his back, but neither moves quick enough to evade Cara’s sharp eyes. By this point Omera’s face is burning with embarrassment, but more so is the burn deep in her belly from being interrupted. She had _felt_ Din, and she wanted nothing more than to pull him back against her. She knows what it costs for him to be like this with her, but a selfish part of her hopes this break hasn’t given him time to reconsider and regret his actions.

Her eyes are locked wide on Cara as the woman’s smirk grows, but a fleeting glance to Din shows his clear frustration even through the helmet. He doesn’t seem to be thankful for the interruption, yet, at least.

“Okay, I can take a hint. I’m going to leave then,” Cara defends, hands up in surrender as she lets a chortle loose. But then her lips are pursing, and she looks a bit conflicted. “Don’t get me wrong, not than I’m not stoked for the two of you, but I’d just like to remind you of your Creed, Din. It’s a real buzz kill, but I know you’ll thank me later.”

Cara gives him a pointed look then turns on her heel and struts back out, but not before giving Omera a suggestive eyebrow raise. She hopes Din didn’t catch that, but when she flickers her eyes back to his helmet, it is trained on her with such an intensity that she forgets Cara had even been there.

And then Din is crowding her against the wall again, pulling his body up close but just far enough to not be touching. His hands are braced on the wall either side of her and she sees how he trembles with the strain as if this was physically hard. She wonders if he is struggling with being this close or holding himself back from being closer. Her chest rises and falls frantically with her breath and she works to stay still and not reach for him. She treats him as she would a frightened animal, careful to not make sudden movement so as to not startle it.

Suddenly the trembling stops, and he cuts the silence with a soft sigh. His helmet dips down and he butts it so gently against her cheek, presses into her neck.

“She’s right,” he breathes, nuzzling one last time and it has her twisting her fists into the fabric of her skirts to keep her hands from him. She leans into the touch of his helmet gently, and after a moment he steps back. “I’m sorry.”

He seems so dejected, the lines of his body slumped where he normally stands rigid and strong. She doesn’t understand why he feels the need to apologise to her, he has given her more than she could have ever hoped for. Before he can step too far away, she reaches her hand up and glides it around to the back of his neck. Giving a small smile she presses against his helmet again tenderly.

“Don’t be,” she tells him softly and pulls back. “This is enough for me.”

“I can give you more,” he seems to blurt before he realises, following her as she retreats and nuzzling again. She wonders how long they will play this back and forward game. But when he leans back, she can sense the gravity of what he is trying to tell her, so she remains still and lets him withdraw. “Eventually. I just need some time.”

Her stomach flips at the possibilities, her mind running wild with what he could mean by giving her more. She would give him all the time in the world to figure that out. She feels herself nodding before she even realises and wonders if he will let her touch her lips to his helmet, show him of the other kisses she wishes to give. She reaches out with both hands to rest on either side of his helmet, and when he doesn’t pull back and instead shuffles towards her, she is empowered, feels her chest swell.

Going up onto her toes, she slowly leans in and touches her lips just barely to the side of his helmet. The metal is cool to her touch, a welcomed calm on her overly flushed features. Pulling back an inch, she watches the visor for even a hint of movement, but he stays remarkably still until his shaking hands come to settle softly on her hips, the pressure so light that if it wasn’t for their trembling, she probably wouldn’t even notice their weight.

She gives another soft kiss to the same spot at the side of his helmet. This time, she drags her lips just above the metal, dotting soft kisses along the way as she glides to the front of his helmet, pausing over where she imagines his mouth sits hidden behind the metal.

“Is this okay too?” She asks softly, and he nods, wanting his permission before she touches her lips finally to the area covering his own lips. When she does, his fingers dig in the slightest amount at her hips, just reminding her that they are there.

“Good,” she smiles against the metal and begins to withdraw. “But we should probably stop now.”

And he chuckles. It is so soft and rhythmic that she feels her heart rate picking up all over again.

“When I came back and saw how you were with Darq,” he begins mutely, having stepped back from holding her captive against the wall with his body. “I feared I had waited too long to return.”

She thinks it absurd, how he had come to that conclusion, that she would ever show interest in anyone else now that she’d met him. But then she supposes he was still as oblivious to his allure as he had been before.

She also hates that she dismissed Cara’s teasing about Darq. She had warned her of how it looked, at least from Darq’s side, but she had thought Cara had been overreacting at the time. To know Din had looked at them and wondered, it sets her blood cold and she never wants to make him second guess it ever again.

“You had no need to worry. I would have waited for you forever, I still will. I knew there would never be anyone else once I met you. Even if we never came to anything.”

Despite the rapid beating of her heart and the burn in her cheeks, she forces herself to keep her eyes level on his visor, needs him to feel reassured with her words.

“Me too,” he whispers after a time and she gives him a smile she hopes isn’t too over the top even though that is exactly how she is feeling.

She leaves shortly after, knowing the risk of staying longer and pressuring Din. She can’t even begin to comprehend the gift he had given her and she was very conscious of treading carefully.

She finds Cara in her hut, sitting at the table and waiting expectantly. When Omera crosses the threshold she quickly goes to sit at the other woman’s side, wide smile and cheeks pink.

“Well,” Cara drawls, nudging her with an elbow. “When did all this happen? Have you been holding out on me?”

“It’s new. Very new,” she explains before Cara can get offended at being left out of the loop. “The day before we went into town, that was the first time. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure if it would happen again.”

Cara roars with a laugh and gives her a look as if she’d grown another head, “From where I’m standing, I don’t think you have to worry about it not happening again. I was worried if I didn’t step in, he might have crushed you with how desperately he pressed against you, good thing he didn't have all his armour on. I suppose I should have known before I walked in; I’m surprised the kid slept through all that heavy breathing.”

“It wasn’t that loud,” Omera defends, but she can’t help the smile that nearly splits her face in two.

“You’re right, the breathing wasn’t so bad. It was more all the groaning-”

Her stomach flips at the thought of sounds she must have been unaware she was making. Actually, Cara was probably just teasing. Yeah.

So she laughs instead of justifying the groans she wasn’t making, giving Cara a light slap on the arm.

“Alright, come on, spill the juice. What was that?” Cara demands.

“It is how his people kiss,” Omera begins wearily, very conscious of maintaining Din’s privacy. “They press their foreheads together, though obviously they both generally have a helmet on. It has a name in his language… but I don’t want to pronounce it wrong. Ask him.”

Cara’s eyes suddenly light up with mischief, and Omera realises her mistake. “Wait! No, don’t ask him. Just know it has a name.”

“That’s it?” She snorts looking unconvinced. “You just thumped both your clueless heads together? You both seemed a lot more hot and bothered than that.”

Omera just shrugs, doesn’t want to mention how she’d pulled him so tight against her own body that she could feel how he was reacting. There was no telling what Cara would do with information like that. Besides, it was probably less to do with her and more that he had a body nudging up against his own that was more than welcoming.

Her face heats more and she suddenly feels nauseous. He would never reject her, out of his own kindness she is sure, so she hopes she hadn’t coerced him.

“The helmet must be kind of a drag though, right?” Cara speculates, screwing her face up and thankfully distracting Omera from her doubt.

Omera has to disagree. Though she desperately wants to see his face, she was surprised that she still longed for him despite the full armour. It was different now, as she’d seen his hands, his neck, and that made her desires all the stronger. But even in the beginning, she had been just as charmed.

“I kind of… like it…” she confesses, face burning with embarrassment but a giddy smile spreading her lips.

“Really? With the helmet on…?” Cara looks thoroughly scandalised and sends her a suggestive smirk.

Of course, her mind would go straight to the gutter. Omera laughs despite herself, shaking her head incredulously at the other woman.

“Not like that!” She denies, nudging Cara right back when she lands a quick jab between Omera’s ribs. “It’s the _mystery_.”

Cara gives a characteristic snort and Omera knows she is never going to live this down.

So she rambles to excuse herself. Not really an excuse because she does need to get into the ponds, but also wants to distract herself from those lines of thought. Cara seems to drop it, reporting that she is going to do her normal scouts and perimeter checks. So they part ways and Omera begins her days' work.

She tries to remain focussed but finds her eyes drifting to the barn often, watching for a glimpse of Din. She knows he will not surface for some time, she had interrupted him tending to his gear and she knew how long the process was.

She is hip-deep in one of the ponds near the main road into the village, gathering one last basket-full from that pond before she joins the others in the next one. Finally done, she hauls the basket onto her hip and brushes her hair from her face with a huff.

She is alerted to a group of unfamiliar men approaching from the main road, their demeanour and confidence making her skin crawl. No one else appears to have noticed them yet, and she anxiously flits her eyes to where the children are playing near the well, their morning break from lessons.

“Winta,” Omera calls unhurriedly so as not to startle, hoping she is being subtle. Winta skids to a stop in front of her from where they had been playing tag. “Take the rest of the kids into the hall for lessons.”

Winta opens her mouth to respond as another of the children dashes up to tag her, running off laughing. “Hey! No fair!” she swats at their retreat and turns back to her mother with a confused frown. “But we just started break.”

“Go play inside,” she tries again, climbing out of the pond and wringing her skirts out, keeping the men in her periphery. They were still a ways off, but they would be upon them soon enough.

“But why?” Winta pouts and looks very close to stomping her foot.

“Please, Winta,” Omera pleads, bending to her daughter’s height and holding her shoulders, trying to convey the importance of doing as she says without explaining. “Go play inside with the others and stay there until I come get you. It is very important.”

She still looks like she wants to protest, but when Omera doesn’t back down, she gives a slow nod, “… okay, Mama.”

“Good girl,” Omera breathes, pressing a kiss to her forehead and ushering her on. She watches as Winta rounds everyone up, picking up Din’s boy gently, and they all scurry into the hall. Once they’re out of sight she lets out a sigh and turns back to watch the men. A few other villagers have taken notice of their approach by now. She means to walk and meet them halfway, try her best to not let them get near the centre of their village, but is stopped by a hand to her shoulder.

“Stay back,” Stoke tells her, the concern clear on his face. He walks past her with a group of their own men as they make their way towards the visitors.

She feels raw energy tingling down her spine but is frozen on her spot even as she wills her feet to move. If she could move, she isn’t sure if she would stalk over with the other men, or retreat further into the village as the women do. So she just watches from her place.

The two groups have nearly met, and she now sees that there are three men, all dressed much too smart to be at a krill farm, and she doesn’t miss the dull glint of weapons hidden beneath their clothes.

These were not friends.

A sinking feeling in her gut tells her it is someone else after Din and the child, just like last time. And last time they had been saved from a shot landing, but they had had to leave. She doesn’t think she can go through that again, not after knowing what it feels like to be in Din’s arms, his heavy helmet pressed against her. She swallows thickly and watches on helplessly, unsure of what to do, but praying Din stays in the barn out of sight.

“Hello, travellers,” Stoke calls kindly, though she sees his form remains tense. “What brings you to our village?”

A man with light hair and a smug grin glances to the others, obviously the leader of the three. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, sweeping his arm to his hip and bringing his hanging jacket with it to reveal the blaster there. The other two snigger and step forward too. They look as if they may even be brothers, both with dark hair, but one has a serious collection of piercings on his face and ears.

“You can cut the crap. We know he’s here,” the leader proclaims, beady eyes sweeping the village.

So, she was right. She feels like her legs are going to give way beneath her with how her knees shake, and she is surprised with how strongly her heart beats as it shatters.

She would do anything in her power to protect Din and his boy, and she is fairly certain the rest of the village would too at this point. But even though they severely outnumbered the intruders, the men still had blasters and whatever else they were concealing.

“We don’t know who you mean–” Caben steps forward too, but suddenly a blaster is pointed between his eyes and everyone freezes.

“It doesn’t have to be this way. Just hand him over and we will be on our merry way,” the unpierced brother retorts, not moving his blaster an inch.

Despite being in the face of danger, Caben does not falter, unlike when they had fought the raiders seemingly so long ago. She feels a swell of pride at his strength and willingness to protect Din, but also conflicted and anxious, this situation could have no happy ending.

“Enough of this!” the blonde demands, clearly having lost his patience. “Over there! All of you!” he instructs, drawing his own blaster and indicating to his side.

They have barely had time to raise their hands in surrender when she hears the tell-tale chink of armour and heavy boots.

“Stop,” he rumbles quietly at the men, though it sounds deafening to her and demands authority.

“No…” she breathes and glances over as he breezes past her, close enough that his cloak brushes against her side. She feels her face curl in pain and hopelessness, she wanted to protect him, hide him. Not give him any reason to leave again.

“Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?” the leader calls, glancing at his goons for an explanation but they merely shrug, all having in confusion lowered their blasters. Now she too is confused.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man continues, shaking his head clear. “Hand him over. Why bother protecting a coward like him?”

“Who are you talking about?” Stoke finally speaks into the void of silence, everyone seeming as confused as each other.

“Don’t play dumb,” pierced-brother grunts out, clear distaste in his voice. “That lowlife, Darq. He owes us a lot of credits.”

They were here for Darq? What had he done? She knew he had a less than moral past, but Pippa had assured her that he had moved past all that. Omera is so confused that she is at a loss for words, and so is everyone else it seems.

“There is no Darq here,” Din cuts in when it becomes obvious no one else is going to, stepping between the two groups.

She is surprised to hear him defend Darq, she knew he had no time for the man. But she supposes that is the kind of man he is, and she only longs for him more. He stands defiant between the intruders and her people, resting his hand on his own blaster. He strikes a much more imposing image than they ever managed to. She almost feels sorry for them.

“Don’t be a hero,” the leader snorts condescendingly. “We are going to search every scrap of this hole until we find our rat, whether you like it or not.”

“I wouldn’t try it.”

Clearly they didn’t take his threat seriously, because their leader gives a glance to the brothers and inclines his head towards the centre of the village. These men obviously had not heard of Mandalorians, for surely they would not have been so stupid to challenge him if they had.

“Wrong move,” Din utters and in a flash of silver and cloak, he is at the pierced brother’s side before he can even take a step.

She watches mesmerised as he flicks the blaster from the man’s grip in a flash as if it was nothing, and she was unable to even follow the quick, precise movements he took. The blaster falls to the ground and he kicks it back out of reach at the same time as he pulls his arm back and connects his fist with the man’s face. There is a sickening crunch and the man is out cold, slumping to the ground.

Stoke dives to the ground to retrieve the stray blaster but none of the men pay him any mind.

The second brother goes to aim his blaster at Din too, and Din ducks under the arm and knocks it to the side, the blaster shot ringing loud across the tense krill ponds. The sound vibrates in her chest, but of course Din had been conscious to knock it away from anyone, and the blast can be seen skirting off into the woods. Still holding the man’s struggling arm, he expertly flips his own body weight against him, flinging the man over his back to land in a pile of heavy limbs.

And somehow he has managed to grab the man’s blaster in the process, she isn’t sure how that happened, and he stalks to the last of the intruders. The leader looks pale, where his frame was cocky and confident when they first approached, it was now hesitant and hunched.

Omera only sees it the moment before it happens, and she has barely opened her mouth to warn Din before the man he had just flicked to the ground scrambles to his knees with a knife in hand. The warning dies on her lips as he slices at the back of Din’s thigh and she finds herself stumbling forward with an agonised croak as if she herself had been cut.

Din halts in his advance to the leader to glance down at the injury as if it was merely a scratch. His helmet rolls to the man on his knees and the look of only annoyance is clear even through the helmet.

Din thrusts his arm forward to grab the non-pierced brother by his collar and wrench him up to his height from where he kneels. In quick succession Din rears his head back then slams his helmeted head into the man’s already contorted face. He is knocked out instantly and Din shoves his limp body away as if he is offended to have it anywhere near him.

By the time he turns back to the final intruder, the leader, the other man has had time to comprehend the situation and fires a blaster shot at Din. It pings off Din’s chest plate and seems to aggravate him more. Din drops the blaster he had taken from the other man and with a flick of his wrist, wires shoot out of his vambrace to lock around the leader’s own wrist that is clutching a blaster. A quick yank has the man stumbling reluctantly forward into Din, where he grabs a hold of his neck and thrusts him to the ground, disarms him and aims the man’s own blaster to the centre of his chest.

“Are you done?” Din rumbles evenly from where he kneels above the man as if he hadn’t even worked up a sweat.

The man stammers, unable to get any words out and lifts his arms in surrender. And Din makes his world fade to black too with a quick jab.

Omera steps forward as Din stands, sweeping his gaze around the carnage of bodies surrounding him. She is completely enthralled despite the horrible situation. He had moved with such grace and deadly precision, easily incapacitating each threat methodically, yet she knows they are just unconscious. He had not fought to kill, only disarm.

She is sure there must be something truly morbid about the stab of heat she feels in her belly from watching him. The heat flares up from her stomach to her chest and she can just feel it start to pool in her cheeks. Now she understood what he meant about the Mandalorian kiss being used to injure. It seemed outrageous that he had shown such gentle care in the same gesture with her only hours beforehand.

With the threat neutralised, she rushes to Din’s side as he limps to a nearby crate and leans himself against it to inspect his wound. Blood is pooling from the area but he looks mostly unbothered, more inconvenienced than anything.

Omera feels anger seize her and her fists are squeezed so tight the knuckles turn white. Darq had brought these men into their home, because of his dodgy dealings. And now Din was injured. But what would they have done if he hadn’t been here? Who knows who may have been harmed?

“We’ll get you patched up in the hall,” she says, placing a shaking hand on his shoulder.

He gives her a nod and stands, waving off the offered hands of the other men around him. They are all thanking him, unable to express their gratitude for what he had done for them, and he looks equally unable to accept. He merely nods.

“The kid, he’s still in the barn, I need to check on him first,” he begins, limping in the direction of the barn.

“I’ll get your son, you go with Omera,” Caben steps into his path with a placating hand on his shoulder. He deliberates for a moment but then also nods.

By now Cara has returned, sprinting from the other side of the village with concern heavy in her expression.

“They will be out for a while,” Din tells her, tipping his head at the unconscious intruders. “Tie them up in the meantime, I just need to see to this.”

No one argues with him, quick to action his suggestion. He follows Omera as she leads the way to the hall, glancing down at the bleeding leg often with growing concern. They are nearly there when Darq exits the hall, looking around nervously at all the disapproving eyes watching him. Omera can no longer hold her anger in and stomps over to him, suddenly feeling as though being the good host is the last of her priorities.

“They were here for _you_ , you brought this upon us!” She yells, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest. “He is injured now because of you… you… you _di’kut_!”

She shoulders past him and into the hall, fuming and frankly needing to be as far away from Darq as possible. She doesn’t even know where the insult came from, she was never one to use her words in such a way. She is embarrassed to admit that she is greedy for any part of Din’s culture, and the word had just slipped out from how often she had used it internally since Din had told her. She also vaguely realises she has double standards. When she had thought the men were after Din, all she could think of was how to protect him. But when it became clear they were here for Darq, she immediately went on the offensive, accusing Darq of dragging them down with him. She suspects Din could never do any wrong in her eyes, and that was dangerous.

She shakes the thought from her mind and scans the crowd of people for her daughter.

“Mama?” Winta whimpers, standing from the group of other children in their parent’s arms. As soon as Omera meets her eyes, she runs and launches herself into her side, hands gripping her mother.

Omera lets out a relieved sigh and strokes her head reassuringly.

But then Winta’s head leans around her and her eyes snap to Din. She removes herself from Omera’s side and hesitantly steps in front of the injured man, lower lip trembling and wetness springing to her eyes. A shaking finger points to the bloodied area on his thigh.

“You’re… bleeding,” Winta whispers, looking to her mother anxiously. “…What…?”

Din steps over to a bench and eases himself down, stretching a hand to grip Winta’s shoulder, “I’m alright, it’s just a scratch.”

At that moment there is an agonised wail from the entrance to the hall. Caben emerges and just manages to let the child down safely as he is wriggling out of his arms then charging across the hall as fast as his little legs will carry him.

He stumbles to a stop at Din’s feet, pain in his big eyes as he warbles uncontrollably up at his father, utterly distraught. When his little arms stretch up, before Din can even move, Winta bends to pick the child up and place him on the bench beside him, and she looks just as distraught.

“Don’t worry, _ad’ika_ ,” Din murmurs, gently taking the child’s hands in his from where he had extended them to Din’s wound. “It’ll be alright, heal on its own.”

The child seems to grumble in disagreement but doesn’t reach his hands out again, instead lets Din hold them with such gentleness in one of his own. She doesn’t know what he means by ‘heal on its own’, because that wound most definitely won’t.

As if on cue, a med kit is handed to her and the rest of the villagers file out to give them privacy to mend him. Winta lingers behind, looking so upset but at a complete loss for words.

“Can you look after him?” Din asks softly of Winta. “I just need to bandage it up but I don’t want him to see.”

The way he treats her daughter never ceases to amaze her. He is a bounty hunter, cold by profession, but treats all the children for that matter with such patience and kindness. She wonders, not for the first time, that being raised in the Mandalorian army corps must have been much different than what you’d assume. His tribe was lucky to have him, the _galaxy_ was lucky to have him.

Winta nods mutely and picks up his son. Din gives a soft caress to one of his ears and murmurs something in his language, and then Winta is carrying him to join everyone outside. Once she is out of sight, Omera lets out a deep sigh and throws herself down heavily on the bench beside him.

She turns to him with concern, can feel her own eyes burning with unshed tears and anger. She opens her mouth to express her apology, but he tips toward her and nudges a cheek with his helmet gently, as if he wasn’t actively bleeding and hadn’t just knocked three men out flat.

“I liked hearing you speak Mando’a,” he murmurs lowly, the gravel in his voice making her stomach flip and a shiver run through her as it tickles her ear. She cannot feel his breath because of the helmet, but she can imagine how it would crawl along her neck, swears she can almost feel it anyway. She breathes a laugh and reaches a trembling hand up to hold his helmet against her, but he doesn’t need the encouragement. He lingers there a moment longer, then with a final nuzzle down into her neck he retreats to finally give his wound the attention it desperately needs.

There is a long slash in his body suit where the blood is coming from and he eases it aside to look at the deep gash beneath. She hisses in a breath as he pokes and prods at it with detached curiosity, as if gauging how bad it is.

“I think I just need to cauterise it,” he comments, and she feels her face pale from where it had been flushed before. She can still hear the horrible zapping and his laboured breath through gritted teeth. “It might have nicked a nerve but nothing major.”

He is so monotone that it makes her uneasy, but she doesn’t know why she is surprised, it had been this way last time too.

“Are you hurt anywhere else? I saw the blaster fire hit you.”

He moves his hand to hold the chest plate, testing out his movement by rolling his shoulder and kinking his neck.

“It hit me in the beskar, it’s just bruising because it was at close range. Their blasters are inferior models,” he doesn’t sound at all concerned, just as if stating the obvious. When he goes to stand, she places a hand on his arm to keep him in place.

“I’ll get the cauteriser, don’t move.”

He explains where it is, begrudgingly, and she quickly goes to retrieve it. When she returns, she is glad to see that he hasn’t, in fact, moved, just merely positioned himself to better access his wound. She returns to his side and hands him the tool. He gets to work straight away, not even asking her to turn her back to him, so she supposes they are past all that. If circumstances were different, she would feel breathless at seeing another scrap of his skin, but somehow the glimpse of tan thigh she sees through the slash in his pants just doesn’t quite do it. It is probably all the blood.

She looks away, fiddling with the med kit and gathering a couple of dressings for him to cover the wound when he is done.

“What should we do with them?” she asks softly, barely above a whisper. He pauses for a moment, then takes the offered dressings from her.

He is silent for a long time, cleaning the surrounding skin before applying the gauze. She wonders what he is thinking, his body stern and movements jerky. She thinks maybe he doesn’t need to say anything at all, she knows what is going through his head.

“You don’t have to leave,” she whispers, knowing what he doesn’t say. “We will protect you and your boy.”

“I know you would, but I can’t ask that of you. They’ve seen me now, they may not have been here for me, but news travels fast,” he explains, though he sounds hesitant and she lets herself believe the hesitance is him not wanting to leave _her_.

She desperately tries to think of what will convince him to stay, that he doesn’t need to go. That she gets it. The intruders were the problem because they might speak of what they’ve seen here and others will come looking for the wanted bounty hunter and his prize. But that they could make sure they don’t talk, that they don’t _leave_ this place.

“What do we need to do? Those men, what if we could make sure they don’t say anything?” She utters, unable to speak of the solution her mind is only barely able to conceive. She swallows and wets her lips. “They’re here for Darq… maybe…”

She feels awful, sickened that she even considers the idea that one life is worth more than another. But she also knows there is little she wouldn’t do for this man.

“You’d do that?” He asks quietly, helmet focussed so intently on her, probably thinking the same thing, that she is much different from the person he thought she was.

“Does that make me a horrible person?” She whispers, unable to face his visor, hands gripping at the wood of the bench seat fiercely. “Of course it does. I don’t…”

She feels so utterly helpless, nerve-endings completely shot with her grieve that she finds herself jumpy, flighty. He sets a firm hand over her own, the leather of his gloves telling of the warmth of his body underneath, grounding her and making it feel as if it is all a little less hopeless.

“I am… touched you feel that way. That you’d do that for us. I don’t think any less of you if that’s what you are thinking,” he softly rumbles, and when she still doesn’t look his way, he gives a gentle shake to her hand until she does. “You are the strongest person I know.”

She looks into his visor and wonders how she could ever match up to someone like him. That he thinks her to be strong is the biggest miss-sight, she has never been weaker than she is in this moment.

“But it’s not just this,” he sighs, releasing her hand to sit forward, elbows on knees, and wincing a bit when it must pull at his recently treated wound. “I need to try to find the kid’s people, his family.”

The tone to his voice breaks her heart all over again, he sounds so entirely conflicted at the prospect, and she knows he is thinking himself inadequate.

“ _You_ are his family, no one could deny that seeing the way he loves you,” she tries to reassure him.

“I am not enough. I can’t give him what he needs.”

So she was right. But from the outside looking in, it appears as though he lives and breathes for his son, and she cannot comprehend why he thinks he’s not enough.

“What…,” she begins, but then remembers something completely incomprehensible. “Do you mean… what happened at the ponds? With the basket?”

“Hmm, his powers, whatever they are, are getting stronger and it is a strain for him. I don’t know how to help.”

She wishes she could take the burden from him, give him some reassurance that parenting is often like this, not knowing how to help. But he is right, and this burden is too big.

“I don’t want you to leave, but I do understand. Do you know where to look?”

He gives an even bigger sigh, bringing a hand up to run over the back of his helmet in frustration. If the situation wasn’t so tense, she would think it is funny, reminiscent of running a hand through your hair.

“No, not even a lead. I don’t know where to start, so I suppose I’ll just start somewhere,” he shrugs.

She purses her lips in thought. That was not a good game plan.

Her heart races at the possibility, of finding a way around this situation which seemed to have no good outcome until two seconds ago. She doesn’t want him to hear the hope in her voice and feel obligated, so she does her best to keep her tone even.

“Why not make Sorgan your base? We can help you, search the HoloNet, talk to travellers. We get a surprising amount stopping by the town. You can go out searching, and return here to regroup.”

“That would suit well,” he begins slowly, consideration clear in his voice and he straightens once more. “But it would not be fair to you.”

“You will always have a place here. Both of you. You don’t have to do this alone. It will be hard, every time you leave, but it is better than you leaving and never coming back at all. As for those men, we will… figure something out.”

She holds her breath while he deliberates, turns to her and she can almost feel the heaviness of his gaze.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” She almost splutters, inching closer and now unable to keep the relieved smile from her face.

“I wish I didn’t have to put this on you, I will never be able to repay what you’ve done for me,” he is shaking his head, looking down briefly before his helmet tilts up, and she knows his eyes lock on her own behind the visor. “I’m so sorry.”

She gives a breathless laugh, shakes her head and urges the tears to not fall from her eyes, she wants to maintain at least some of her pride. She takes a deep breath, hoping she is getting the context right, trying to convey that she respects his culture and is trying to understand it.

So she tips forward and butts her head softly against his helmet, lingering there with a firm pressure that he returns instantly with a small choked inhale.

“This is the Way,” she whispers, feeling choked-up herself.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men are dealt with, Darq is given more than he deserves, and Din makes a decision!

Din tries to downplay his limp as much as possible as they make their way out of the hall, he hates looking weak but hates himself even more for leaving himself open for the attack. He is pissed off because it doesn’t even hurt that much, it is just annoying. He could tell the kid had wanted to heal him, as he had done with Karga on Nevarro, but he never wanted to ask that of the little one.

Omera is a comforting presence at his side, and he is glad she allows him to keep his dignity and not offer her hand as he knows she wants to.

Outside he sees a few of the village men and Cara standing guard by the men after Darq, but otherwise everyone else must be taking shelter in the other huts. Darq was a _di’kut_ , but at least he too had the sense to stay out of sight.

Din cannot describe the relief he had felt when it became clear that the men couldn’t care less about him and the kid, but their presence here still spelt nothing but trouble. He wasn’t strong enough to leave this time, so it really didn’t take all that much convincing from Omera, but even so her plan was good. And it would be nice to not have to do this alone.

They are making their way over to Cara when he sees Winta’s head pop out from one of the huts. He watches as she screws up her face in thought, flitting her eyes to their unwelcome guests before cocking her head at him.

He redirects their path to her spot after a quick glance to make sure the men were still unconscious. When he nods at her questioning look, she dashes the last distance to close the space between them, the kid wrapped tightly in her arms.

“Are you better now?” She asks, all concern and sadness. He decides that look does not belong on her face, or her mother’s for that matter, and he will do everything in his power to prevent it.

“Hmm,” he agrees and gently takes the little one from her offered arms. He had been squirming so badly so Din knows there is no point trying to get him to stay away. “Thank you. You should go back inside, we will sort this out and everything will be fine.”

She gives him a watery smile and throws her arms around her mother in a quick hug. Omera glances to him with a warm smile then leans down to kiss the crown of her daughter’s head, stroking her hair back when Winta looks up at her. He waits for them to finish their moment before moving on, so he is stunned when Winta withdraws herself slowly and steps in front of him. She looks at him in quiet question, her arms hanging limply at her sides and she takes another small half step.

He can tell she wants something, is waiting for something, but can’t comprehend what until he feels her small arms reach around him too, careful to avoid going anywhere near his wound. His stomach flips as she embraces him, and he sees Omera’s eyes widen in shock too before darting to his helmet.

He can feel how Winta trembles, whether with nerves from the recent events or simply hugging him, he isn’t sure. But he doesn’t hesitate as he reaches his free arm around her too, giving her back a soft rub.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she mumbles against his stomach, squeezing tighter for a moment before drawing back shyly.

He gives her a pat on her head followed by a gentle nudge back towards the hut she had emerged from. He risks a quick glance at Omera and finds she is watching him carefully, a soft look in her eye that he cannot begin to decipher.

So he continues on to things he is much better at handling, like crooked men that had no business being here. When they make it over to the group, the leader is just starting to stir and the other two look as if they will still be out for some time. He had hit them significantly harder.

He isn’t sure what to do. They pose a threat because they have seen him and could bring all kinds of hell down on the village if that information got into the wrong hands. He tells himself that he doesn’t want to have to kill them, even as he is consumed by hatred, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Even Omera had seemed to be suggesting it, but that had been in the heat of the moment while she had been petrified of the danger to her daughter and people. He wouldn’t let her have that on her hands, knowing she would carry it for the rest of her days, and it would completely destroy a kind soul such as hers. Likewise, handing over Darq wasn’t an option.

Din grits his teeth, feeling utterly powerless.

He steps up beside Cara as she waits impatiently for the bloodied man to wake, foot tapping insistently against the dirt.

“What should we do?” Caben asks timidly, a complete turnaround from the man that had stared down the barrel of a blaster just before without even flinching.

Before Din can reply the man jolts awake, disorientation clouding his features as he scans his surroundings. Catching sight of his companions, he kicks at their limp forms desperately, a wary eye on the villagers. The two dark haired men also begin to wake, groggy rumbles escaping them as they too startle at their observers.

Suddenly the kid starts fidgeting, nudging its persistent hand against Din's chest plate and warbling uncontrollably.

“What is it, _ad’ika_?” Din asks as if the kid can reply. He seems so adamant on telling Din something, waving his little claws around before he appears to become frustrated at Din’s lack of understanding and wriggles to get down.

Din helps him, listening and trusting whatever the kid was trying to say. The little one takes a step towards the men but before Din can yank him back, he lifts a trembling hand. When the kid closes his eyes, Din can see frantic movement behind the lids. The leader looks confused, is about to say something but his words die on his breath.

A blank look overcomes his face, and gazing at the other two men, Din notices they look much the same.

“We didn’t find Darq here,” the leader says without emotion as if it were merely a fact. “We missed him because he had already left. We will follow him off-world. There was nothing of interest here.”

When he is finished, he continues to stare blankly, none of the anxiety or apprehension in his body that had been there a moment ago. The villagers are all looking to each other as if to confirm they hadn’t imagined what had just taken place.

“There was nothing of interest here,” the other men mimic, and then the kid is slumping, no longer able to hold up his own head, let alone the hand he had been waving.

“Cut them loose, quickly. Don’t interrupt their actions,” Caben urges quietly, swooping down to gather the kid and when he stands back up, he gives Din a pointed look as he steps around a stack of crates, out of their captive’s sight. When the rest look to Din hesitantly, he gives a nod then moves to follow Caben, mind racing a mile a minute to comprehend what had happened. Had the kid done this? Another power?

Caben looks wired, eyes wide and Din is sure his brain is working as quickly as his own.

“Has he done anything like this before?” Caben finally asks, passing the kid back when Din reaches for him.

It must have drained him, more than the healing and levitating, because he is already asleep, so deathly still that Din would be concerned if his breathing wasn’t so deep and steady. He would be fine, just needed to recover.

“Nothing like this,” he replies to the earlier question, wearily vague. He is sure he can trust the farmer, but he knows the abilities the child had could tempt even the purest.

“I have read about many cultures, I’ve tried to about most, it’s why I knew you were Mandalorian. But I have also read descriptions of _this_ , of a people that could control what we cannot see, that can… can _manipulate_ their environment and others.”

Maybe his search could start here after all. Maybe he was fated to come back. The realisation makes him feel only a little less guilty about selfishly returning.

“Jedi?” he asks, still sceptical, and Caben’s eyes widen again.

“You’ve heard too?” he whispers urgently, looking to the kid in his arms with concern but Din gets the feeling Caben is only worried for the kid. The people of this village truly had no end to their kindness. “Is he?”

“I don’t know,” Din sighs.

And he didn’t. It was what the Armourer had suggested, but he rejected the idea that the little one was anything more than his foundling. He may have the powers of the enemy sorcerers, but he was a part of his _aliit_. His… son.

“Hey, they’re leaving,” Stoke suddenly calls, and Din can see his head snapping back and forward trying to keep them in sight while searching for where Din and Caben had retreated to. “Do you…? Are we letting that happen?”

“I don’t think they’ll cause us any more trouble,” Caben speaks before he can, approaching the group of villagers but holding a hand up when Din goes to follow. “You and your son stay out of sight.”

Din doesn’t like to be told what to do, but he can’t argue with the man’s logic. If Caben knew anything of the ability the kid had used, it was leagues above Din’s understanding, and he would be the last person to question Caben’s judgement.

But even so, he didn’t like the idea of sitting on the sidelines and leaving it up to fate.

“I’ll tail them, see what’s going on, and make sure they _do_ go off-world,” Cara retorts, locking her eyes on his helmet as if she could sense his discomfort.

He can’t express the gratitude he feels, so he just nods.

“Take the com,” Omera urges, brows furrowed so deep with concern. He wishes he could take Cara’s place to ease Omera’s anxiety. “And be careful.”

Cara only snorts and waves Omera off, “If he can take them then I definitely can, I cleaned the floor with him when we met.”

He doesn’t confirm or deny her statement, though he thinks maybe his silence is answer enough judging by the slight chuckle from Omera.

They hang around for some time, Omera darting off to update the nervous villager’s peering out from inside their huts and retrieve the com-link from the storage shed.

Eventually, the trio are out of sight and Cara begins her scout, com tucked securely into her belt. It is as if the entire village lets out a sigh of relief, cautiously stepping out of their huts and rushing to comfort each other. Din finds himself captivated by the breathtaking smile Omera sends the other villagers when they approach her to see if she is alright. But the happy peace is interrupted by loud crashes and dull thumps coming from one of the huts.

He turns his head away from Omera just as Darq comes stumbling out of a nearby hut, arms up defending himself from the collection of items being hurled at him. He is clearly about to say something but a particularly well-aimed bowl smacks him in the shoulder and his words die on a pained grunt. Strewn around him are multiple loose items and bags overspilling with their contents.

“You _promised_!” A woman yells as she storms out after him, clearly the one with the good arm. “You promised this was all behind you. How could you do this to us, to _me_?”

Din would take the time to be impressed with her ferocity if it wasn’t for the utter pain and betrayal clear on her face. She looks as broken as Din had felt when the intruders had first threatened the village.

“Pip… I had nowhere else to go!” Darq pleads, too focussed on avoiding another hit to see the spectacle he was making. “They would have hunted me down.”

The incredulous look she shoots him makes even Din feel nervous. Her husband stands behind her, looking clearly conflicted as to whether he should attempt to placate the woman.

“And they could have killed all of us! If not for the Mandalorian! They nearly killed him and he still protected you!”

He hadn’t been expecting her to jump to his defence, but the reality warms him despite the bleak circumstances. Maybe Omera was right, and he _would_ always have a place here. Despite all the darkness that seemed to follow Din around, the village was happy to have him, and the good and bad the comes with him.

“What am I supposed to do?” Darq begs, arms thrown wide and nearly on his knees.

The woman, Pippa, purses her lips and tears well in her eyes. Din can tell she is avoiding looking at her brother. She needs comfort, she is hurting, and Din thinks her husband must be an idiot to not see it and go to her. Eventually he catches on though and places a steadying hand on her shoulder.

Din takes the chance to glance around and notices most of the others have retreated into the hall to give them privacy. He is struck again with the calibre of morals these people have. Darq most definitely didn’t belong. Which meant he probably didn’t either.

He swallows numbly at the thought, it wasn’t a new observation, but it was a hard one to acknowledge when he had grown so attached to the small farm. He goes to follow the others into the hall, but not before he hears Pippa’s passing words.

“I don’t know, Darq,” she whispers, turning away. “But you can’t stay here, not even on Sorgan. I love you, but I can’t stand the sight of you.”

...

It is later that afternoon when Darq is just finishing packing his belongings and the child has been settled to sleep, that Din approaches the man. He too is angry at Darq for bringing chaos to the village, but a part of him sees himself. His younger self that wasn’t bad but just got involved in the wrong crowd.

Darq pauses as he is stuffing a jacket into the bag to look up at Din in alarm, probably thinking he is the last person he expected to see. Din doesn’t blame him, they definitely hadn’t seen eye to eye since meeting, but everyone deserves a second chance. Though by the sounds of it, Darq may have exhausted all of his. Even so, Din knew some fates were worse than death, and whatever Darq had done, he doubts he deserves that.

Darq straightens up to his full height and looks to him warily, his eyes ringed in red and glassy. Din considers for one last moment, then passes the other man the small package in his hand. Darq takes it hesitantly, the question clear on his face, and peers down into the bag. When he catches the glint of a blaster and the chinking of credits, his eyes widen and he shoots a look up to his helmet.

“Keep your head down,” Din tells him. “Find a job, a good job, and make Pippa realise you are still the man she thought you were.”

Darq nods quickly, looks as if he is going to say something, is almost hopeful, but Din cuts him off.

“But if you endanger my clan again, I will kill you.”

The other man shrinks back and pales, but Din can see he understands the chance he has been given as he nods sternly, mouth set in a determined line. Din nods in response and then Darq makes his way to the repulsorlift speeder, clambering on and being carried away.

...

Cara returns later that evening with news that the men had indeed left, with no indication of returning. They are finishing up the evening meal, Omera having gone to wash the bowls and leaving just Din at the table with Cara. He finally gets the chance to thank her. For a multitude of things, but also having reminded him of his Creed this morning, when things had gotten heated between himself and Omera. How long ago that seemed.

“What did I tell you?” she retorts smugly, reclining back with her arms stretched behind her head. “See, Din? I know you.”

“Hmm,” he agrees begrudgingly, feeling somewhat embarrassed that she had caught them in such a predicament, but also relieved as he is fairly certain he hadn’t had the capacity to make an educated decision at the time. “I am conflicted about the Creed.”

She cocks her head in question, but the serious edge to her eyes shows him she is done making fun of him, only wants to help, “Your helmet? If she couldn’t see…?”

“I don’t want to find loopholes, but I’ve never felt the beskar to be a barrier before. Whether she can see my face or not is irrelevant, I cannot remove my helmet in the presence of another living being unless they are _aliit_ , my clan. The fact that she has been around me without my full armour… even that feels almost in breach,” he confesses, fists tightening and flexing where they sit on his thighs.

“She seems happy enough, and if she isn’t asking you for more, just take it as it comes,” Cara shrugs, as if it was that simple, and Din wishes it was. “I gotta tell you though, I was pretty surprised when I walked in. I’ve seen you two dancing around each other but never expected this. Especially after last time I suggested you settled down with her and you brushed me off.”

“I was surprised too. She treats my culture as if she has grown up with it. I have never found anyone that respects it as she does.”

“It is who she is,” Cara shrugs.

He agrees with her, wants to say more, but then Omera is approaching them once more, wide smile and flagon of spotchka in her hand, “I think we need a drink.”

“A lady after my own heart!” Cara roars as if their conversation hadn’t been deep and meaningful just two moments prior. “Your place, I think,” Cara suggests to him, linking arms with Omera and heading to the barn.

“The kid –,” Din begins, the little one was sleeping, and stands to follow them but Cara cuts of his concern.

“He is zonked, won’t be waking for some time,” Cara argues lightly, continuing on her path and dragging Omera along. Though the other woman doesn’t look like she is protesting too much, smiling at Cara’s antics. “And this way you can’t give some lame excuse as to why you have to leave us.”

“Of course, because _watching_ others drink is my favourite pastime,” he replies sarcastically but follows anyway.

Omera cranes her head around to give him a sympathetic look, and she looks so guilty that Din feels bad for complaining. He shakes his head to let her know he is fine and waves her concerns off with a hand. It clearly does little to ease her guilt as she gives him a rueful smile.

By now they have made it to the barn, and Din checks that indeed the little one is still asleep. He transfers him carefully into his hovering cradle, tucking the blanket snuggly around his little form and easing the pod shut. Claustrophobia clearly wasn’t a concern of the little one, as he mostly found comfort in the closed pod, often putting himself in there and closing it up. The first time he had done it, Din had freaked out, but as always, the kid was more perceptive than he let on and knew how to open it when he was ready. It had caused Din many a headache at times, the kid locking himself away and preventing Din from opening it, his squeal of delight the only noise coming from within.

Din runs a hand over the top of the pod, silently wishing the kid a good sleep and hoping he will wake in the morning as his normal chirping self.

Meanwhile, Omera and Cara continue to chatter away, having set themselves up at the table with a small lantern in the centre providing a low light. He makes his way over and sits at the chair Omera kicks out with her foot, breaking her attention from Cara’s story briefly to send him a warm smile.

He takes a seat but cannot really focus on the tale Cara is spinning, too distracted watching Omera’s reactions. The two women drink the spotchka and he merely watches, though as much as he complained before, he doesn’t really mind, he is happy Omera feels at ease enough to relax after all that had happened.

They talk about anything and everything, Winta intermittently checking in with her mother, and Omera moving to glance out the door to watch her daughter play with the other children. When the sun has well and truly set and night darkens, Omera quickly excuses herself to settle Winta to bed, reporting that she will bring another flagon back with her. Cara raises her cup in cheers as she goes, clearly appreciating the top up in the near future.

“She’s a good kid, Winta is,” Cara observes thoughtfully, the side of her mouth suddenly quirking up in mischief. Nothing good ever came of that look. “I saw her hug you. And you back,” she teases, jabbing an expertly aimed finger into his side where the beskar doesn’t protect him.

The sensation is like an electric shock and his chair screeches along the ground as he maneuverers himself out of her hit zone, swatting her hand away.

“What happened to the big, bad, stone-cold bounty hunter, huh?”

“She called me ‘Dad’,” he murmurs without really realising he’d let the words slip. He hadn’t even really been aware that he remembered that instance, but perhaps it had always been playing in the back of his mind since it happened.

Cara’s teasing gaze instantly sobers but before she can come up with a witty response he continues, correcting his statement so there was no misunderstanding.

“She didn’t mean to, I’m sure. It wasn’t that she thought I was her father, just teasing me because I was instructing her like her mother does. More in mockery. But it shocked me.”

“Yeah, of course it would! Most men wouldn’t–,”

Cara has it wrong, and he doesn’t know why he feels the need to correct her, “It shocked me… because I didn’t necessarily _mind_.”

And most likely the only time in her life, Cara is rendered speechless, eyes blown wide and cup stilling halfway to her mouth.

But the moment passes as footsteps sound on the porch and Omera announces her return, flagon in one hand and a tray of food balanced precariously on the other.

Cara shoots him a look as if to say ‘ _we will continue this later_ ,’ and turns to Omera with a beaming grin as she takes the flagon. Din is amazed at how she can transition between conversations so effortlessly, as if they had not just been talking about him being a father to more than just his own foundling. He knows that conversation is clear on his face as if it was written across it and is thankful again for the helmet obscuring his thoughts from view. He supposes if anyone ever did see his face, they’d be able to read it as easy as a book, as he has never had to work on hiding his feelings and thoughts.

Eventually they get onto the topic of Din’s mission to find the kid’s people, and he is morbidly delighted to see the dejected look on Omera’s face.

“When will you leave?” She asks, clearly trying to remain nonchalant and only partly succeeding.

“I’ll stay for a few more days, make sure there’s no trouble with those men,” he assures her, feels a tightness in his chest at the breathless smile she gives. He clears his throat as he is momentarily distracted, gloved fingers running over a suddenly very interesting pattern in the wood grain of the table. “Turns out my first lead is here anyway, I’ll talk some more with Caben, see what else he knows.”

Omera nods in understanding and their conversation dies off.

“Well, I’ve probably had enough,” Cara declares, standing and giving a long stretch. “If I don’t head to bed now, I might not make it.”

Omera chuckles behind her hand and bids the other woman goodnight, Din just gives a customary nod in parting. He hopes this doesn’t mean Omera will call it a night too, he enjoys staying up with her, even if they barely speak. He just likes her company.

Cara takes a couple of steps towards the door, then looks back at them at the table with a thoughtful eye. She makes a show of glancing out the doorway, hands on hips and blowing out a long whistle.

“There’s no moon tonight. She’s pretty dark out if there are no lanterns…,” she observes, then paces back to the table and quickly flicks the knob on the lantern to dull the flame until it snuffs out. The barn is blanketed in darkness, his helmet automatically switching to night-vision, though he is sure without the helmet he would just be able to still make out Omera’s outline from the glow of the lantern on the porch.

And then Cara is on her way, marching over to the entrance, “With this one out too, you guys won’t be able to see a thing!”

She flicks that lantern off too and the darkness swallows them entirely now, his night-vision allowing him to see but he knows Omera must be blinded. Cara can be heard letting off a chortle and then her stumbling footsteps fade off into the night. The silence that follows is deafening and Din doesn’t know what to say, clearly this was Cara’s idea of helping.

One minute she was intervening and stopping him from making a move, and now she was encouraging it. The woman was an enigma, but then to Din, most women were. And at the top of that list was the woman sitting across from him, leagues above him yet still giving him the time of day for whatever reason that was incomprehensible to him.

Said woman’s nervous laugh chimes through the air and he sees her running her hands blindly along the table searching for the lantern, eyes wide in the hopes of regaining some of her vision. She looks beautiful from what he can see in his helmet, wide smile and fleeting eyes.

“She’s not subtle at all,” Omera comments with a soft laugh, hands finally closing around the lantern. “I’ll put this back on.”

Did she know the stunt Cara was pulling? Was it obvious that he has been speaking with Cara?

Din feels nauseated at the thought with nerves. He was beyond embarrassed, that Omera was aware of Cara’s plan to let Din make a move. What an idiot he was.

“Unless you want to head to bed too?” Omera sounds nervous herself, her face suddenly falling, and Din realises she doesn’t know he can see her expressions. What an interesting insight, to be able to read the expressions she normally tries so hard to hide. He also finds himself more than interested in her statement involving heading to bed but shuts the thought down as soon as it surfaces. “I don’t want to impose…” she trails off.

Without really thinking it through, Din’s hand shoots out to settle over hers gently on the lantern just as she is switching it on, the small flame only just illuminating her face once more.

“Wait,” he utters.

She halts and looks to him, the faint light from the flames emphasising her flushed cheeks and slightly agape mouth. His hand is still over hers on the lantern and he swallows thickly.

“It might be nice to drink with you, properly, for a bit,” he rambles, voice so quiet he is surprised she catches his words at all. Her eyes light up and a small smile appears on her lips. “If that’s okay with you,” he concludes.

A small laugh escapes her on a breath and she looks surprised, but still flicks the lantern off, and darkness settles around them once more. He is surprised too. Does he really mean to do this? Remove his helmet before another living being?

What is more surprising is how right it feels, hands shaking as they reach up to the sides of his helmet. He watches her as the low hiss registers the release of his helmet, and her smile grows wide and looks almost giddy. She distracts herself by fumbling for Cara’s old cup and the flagon.

Din hesitates for only a second more, regretful that he will no longer be able to see her face without the assistance of his helmet but relishing in the fact that he may share a drink with her finally.

He carefully removes his helmet and sets it gently on the table with a dull thump that echoes in his naked ears.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din has made his choice...

His ears can still pick up the small movements Omera makes, and the raw quality of it without the feedback from his helmet is an interesting sensation when paired with his complete blindness. He adjusts his position, scooting his chair back from the table so he can recline, and tugs off his gloves. He can hear Omera has located Cara’s old cup and is slowly pouring the spotchka. The sound bubbles through the silence between them and then her hand is skimming along the table.

“Where’s your hand?” she laughs, so he moves his bare fingers along the table too so that she can find them.

Soon cool fingers are gently brushing over his, and her skin on his jolts him to his core.

“Oh,” she stuns and clearly hadn’t been expecting his bare skin either, because she draws her hand back slightly. “Sorry.”

Missing the sensation already, even as it burns despite their coolness, Din follows her retreat and threads his fingers lightly through her own, keeping the pressure gentle and hoping she cannot feel his tremble.

Omera’s answering giggle gives him confidence and then the cup is sliding into his hand to replace her fingers, “I’m not sure how full it is, sorry.”

And she is giggling again. He hopes it is a combination of the spotchka as well as his presence, he could listen to the sound all night.

“Thank you,” he murmurs lowly, unable to keep the warmth and low humour out of his voice.

Omera’s fumbling halts and he wonders what is wrong. Being unable to see makes him uneasy, but his hearing has become heightened in the absence of that sense and he can hear the small intake of her breath.

“Your voice…” she whispers, trailing off and then clearing her throat before continuing. “Without your helmet… it’s…”

Oh. He hadn’t considered that the difference would be that noticeable, he suddenly feels self-conscious, “Different?” he suggests nervously with a small huffed laugh. “Should I put it back on–”

“–sexy,” she blurts, effectively cutting off his response and any rational thought process.

He is so stunned he doesn’t know what to say, even Omera remains silent, and he wonders if she is shaking her head at herself, wanting to take it back.

He clears his throat quietly, “Oh.” Then he takes his first sip for lack of not knowing what else to do.

“I thought so before too, even with your helmet. I’d always hang on your every word, but hearing you now is…” she trails off and lets out a nervous laugh. “I like when you speak your language too.”

This conversation is very reminiscent of their one so long ago by the fire when she told him she thought he’d be handsome. Clearly, spotchka worked wonders, and if it wasn’t so morally wrong, he would offer it to her all the time so that she may continue to feed his ego. The thought that she may be as infatuated with him as he is her makes his heart thud with want.

“Now I feel like I should always speak in Mando’a if you feel that way,” he teases, and wonders if one sip of spotchka had been enough to make him bold as he would not have normally said that. Surely not, it must just be her, for she is the most intoxicating thing he has ever come across.

She does most of the talking, and although he responds, he doesn’t generally strike up a new topic. He worries that she may find talking to him hard work, that is the last thing he wants, but conversation just doesn’t flow freely for him. She seems content though, and he thinks he could listen to her ramblings forever.

She mentions she saw the picture the kid had drawn, and that she’s felt guilty ever since because she knows his face cannot be seen. He retorts that the picture was not exactly a true likeness, and she laughs as if it is the funniest thing she has ever heard. And she’s happy to know his hair and eyes were, in fact, brown, as he’d said. He makes a mental note to catalogue all the things that can make her laugh like that.

He tells her what he had discussed with Caben, about the kid’s abilities, then about the strange way in which he seems to be able to heal even the most fatal of wounds. And soon he finds conversation does come to him easily, at least with Omera, and he reveals his reluctance to let the kid ever heal him, for he deems himself unworthy of such a gift. She never disagrees with him or dismisses his opinions, even though he knows she wants to, and he appreciates that she knows he needs this. Needs to be able to blame himself without having to defend his claims or be told he is wrong to think of himself as such.

He is so damaged, and despite the outward impression she omits, of being perfect in every conceivable way, he wonders if she is a bit too.

Despite how long they have sat in the utter darkness, Din’s eyes have yet to adjust and he cannot even see the outline of Omera. In the back of his mind, he thinks of how risky this is, being without his helmet but not boarded in like he normally would be. But his internal ramblings are cut short when he hears the faint drag of chair legs against the floorboards as Omera stands. Her hand again settles on his own on the table, but this time instead of drawing away, she grasps his fingers. He turns his hand over so he too can again weave his fingers between her own and tilts his head up to where he imagines her face must be as she stands before him.

Clenching his teeth against his nerves, he ever so slightly gives her hand a gentle tug closer. He doesn’t want to pressure her, but he is also curious to see if he can get her to come closer, to see what she would do with such an invitation. His fingers that are not clutched in hers are gripping the edge of his thigh guard as if that can somehow ground him. This was far beyond anything he had ever experienced before and his body was letting him know it. He feels like he wants to be sick, but also incredibly in need of a drink at the same time.

Omera’s soft chuckle plays in the air again and she steps closer cautiously in the dark, a blind hand reaching out and settling hesitantly on his shoulder. He works to not crush the hand he still holds and takes a silent breath as he releases his thigh guard to move his other hand to her hip. He knows he doesn’t have a hope in hell of hiding his trembling at this point and is relieved to feel a slight tremor in her hands too.

He hears as she takes a steadying breath in through her nose and swallows. There is a swish of her skirts and then a cautious pressure on his knee as she sits slowly. His back instantly straightens, and his hand goes rigid on her hip. She was sitting on his knee.

His lack of response must make her think he doesn’t appreciate her move, which is the opposite of the truth, and she starts to get off.

“Don’t go,” he finally gets his mouth to work, applying the smallest amount of pressure to her hip again to let her know he wants her to stay, but allowing her to stand if she wishes. “It just surprised me is all.”

“Okay,” she whispers back shakily, remaining where she is sitting sideways on one of his knees, both her legs between his.

He brings their joined hands to hold her other hip, and she releases his hand to skirt it up to his arm so that both her hands are settled on each of his pauldrons.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, craning his neck up, the weight of her on his leg somehow emboldening him.

“Yes,” she laughs quietly, her breath fanning over his face the most exhilarating sensation he has ever experienced. He wonders if it is the same for her, if his breath warms and chills her at the same time. “I feel like I’m sixteen again and just snuck a boy into my bedroom.”

He chuckles lightly, finds himself drumming his fingers nervously against her hip, tapping his foot.

“And I suppose this is how I should have felt at sixteen…” he murmurs back, reaching a hand up towards her face as he has wanted to do for so long. It is clumsy in the dark, but once he finds her jaw, he slides his fingers up to cup her cheek. “If I’d ever had a girl sitting on my lap.”

He doesn’t know where the words have come from, he couldn’t even blame the spotchka for he’d only managed to have a couple of sips. Either way, he feels himself leaning up into her, easing his forehead against her own.

It was everything and nothing like when he’d done the same with his helmet. He was careful to not press to eagerly, fearing he’d bump her nose, but unlike her hands, her forehead was feverish against his own. His skin was overly sensitive from never feeling that of another, but even so, he thinks his reaction to her will always be strong no matter how many times he touches her.

“Din…,” she groans after a sharp inhale, but it doesn’t sound like a bad thing and her fingers dig into his biceps under the beskar.

The sound punches him straight in his gut as if he has been winded and he wants to hear his name on a groan again.

“That might be the best sound I’ve ever heard,” he tells her, pulling back and wishing he could see her face.

A breath escapes through her teeth in a laugh and she teases, “Look who’s all confident with the lights out.” She traces her hands from his biceps, up over the pauldrons to his neck where the cloak sits.

He drops his hand from her cheek and feels her hair brush his knuckles, lets his fingers trail through the strands. Her hair had always been beautiful to him, looked so soft, and he relishes in the feeling of touching it freely now.

“… can I touch your face?” she asks hesitantly, fingers stilling over the folds in his cloak.

He nods before he realises she cannot see, but she must have felt the movement because her hands are moving up to his cheeks anyway.

“Just so we are clear though, I am most definitely going to trace your face so my mind can fill in the blanks,” she whispers matter-of-factly, and he cannot help the smile that spreads his lips, pressing his cheeks into her hands. “There’s the smile I know is lethal,” she breathes.

“Why are we whispering?” he whispers back, suddenly conscious of his stubble, hoping she doesn’t mind it against the soft palms of her hands. He never wants her to stop touching his face.

She seems to hesitate, her hands not moving from their position and he thinks she won’t respond until her voice seems to break on her next words, “… because I am hoping I haven’t made you change your whole way of life.”

He doesn’t know how to reassure her, would mention that in his mind this isn’t changing his culture, as it is well within his Creed to remove your helmet in the presence of your _aliit_. But it is wholly too soon to broach that topic, that he considers her _aliit_ too.

Often actions speak louder than words anyway, so he settles his hands back onto her waist, hoping the firm pressure is comforting and encouraging.

And then her fingers are moving again, tracing over his nose and jaw as he tries to keep still against the sensations. She doesn’t touch his lips and he is torn between being relieved and thankful. He wonders what her mind is imagining as she traces, what the blanks are filled with and whether she still imagines a handsome man.

When she is finished tracing the features of his face, she brushes her fingers back to rake through his hair, holding the back of his head as she leans her forehead against his once more. He never expected her to respect his culture so much, but the way she initiates the Mandalorian practice completely stuns him. He hadn’t lied when he said he’d never kissed anyone, in either way, and now he wishes he’d done this sooner.

They stay as they are for a long time, their breath mingling and the only sound in the still night. His lips tingle with the warmth from her being so close and he works his throat to swallow against the sudden dryness he feels. Her lips are so close, and he doesn’t know how he is going to handle what he wants to do. When she had kissed along the cheek of his helmet just this morning, he had felt the scorching heat as if it had been against his skin and it had almost overwhelmed him.

But he can’t stop the way his head tilts where he still has his forehead pressed to hers, fingers digging into her waist to the point he worries he may be causing bruises. She says nothing, remains so still but small breathy puffs of air reveal how she is affected. Their noses brush lightly and Omera is almost panting when Din’s lips just barely brush hers. He pulls back to swallow nervously just as he registers the contact and then presses forward again slightly. He knows his fingers must be bruising her by now as he grips her tightly, but also holding her back from his body. The memory of her pulling him against her on the wall, and the way his body had responded, would not be helpful right now when he was trying to take his time.

Throughout his fumbling, she has remained a statue but before he can be worried that he is doing a truly awful job, she presses her lips back against his too with a slightly firmer pressure. The fingers carded through his hair tighten and twist as she tugs on his hair without seeming to realise.

The sensation is so unexpected but thrilling that it has Din groaning with no choice but to break the kiss before he makes a fool of himself

“Sorry,” he breathes heavily, knocking his forehead against hers gently and remaining there as he attempts to settle his racing heart.

She breathes a laugh in return, bringing one hand back down to follow the line of his jaw and brush the pad of her thumb over his lower lip, “Don’t ever apologise for that. I was too eager, sorry, I know this is new for you.”

He trails one hand back up her throat to cup her cheek, extending his own thumb to run over her lips as his other hand remains a constant pressure at her waist. He leans in to kiss her again, and she places her hand over his on her cheek, the other hooking over the top of his chest plate for purchase.

She begins to move her lips against his very gently, shuffling in her position to stand slightly over him. One leg is standing between his, and the other is kneeling on the chair outside of his thigh so that she is basically straddling him.

His hand that had remained on her waist drifts down over her of its own accord until it is splayed along the back of her thigh where her skirts hang. The other is twisted into her hair and he now understands why she had pulled his hair; his hands had a complete mind of their own when she was kissing him like this.

He tugs her closer, leaning back in the chair as the need to have her _on top_ of him consumes all his thoughts. He just barely begins to feel the warmth of her mouth as she opens it, her lips taking his with them until his lips part too. But then he leans back too far though and the chair nearly topples, startling him and causing Omera to stumble to catch herself before she comes crashing down onto his lap anyway. He laughs at the same time she does, face heating up exponentially when his mind catches up to what had happened. Their heavy breathing fills the air and Omera moves the leg that had been between his onto the outside of his other thigh to get comfortable, but also means she is straddling him properly. He smooths his shaking hands up from her knees to her hips, circling around to hold the small of her back.

It seems to be an unspoken decision that they should hold off doing that again for a bit, but he wishes he wasn’t wearing all his armour so that he might be able to feel her against him like earlier that morning. His cloak is making him insufferably hot.

But on second thought, maybe the beskar was a much-needed barrier, for he was weak in the knees as is and the chest plate at least hid the thumping of his heart.

“Despite having a daughter and so… well…,” she trails off awkwardly, voice breathy and huffing with a small laugh. He hears her wet her lips and feels the swish of her hair as she shakes her head at whatever her thoughts had been. “…But this feels like the most erotic thing I’ve ever done.”

He laughs lowly too, getting the distinct feeling she was thinking about _how_ she had a daughter, what _creating_ a daughter entailed. The thought does nothing to hinder the heat in his face or the coiling in his stomach. He grips her hands when he can feel them flitting around his shoulders, as if not sure where to settle them, so he plays with her fingers instead, threading and unthreading them with his own, “And as you know, this _is_ the most erotic thing I’ve ever done.”

He’s trying to be funny, put her mind at ease to let her know that any nerves she has, he has them ten-fold. She shuffles again and he feels her head nuzzle into his neck, managing to nudge her nose around his cloak to the heated skin underneath. He again wishes the blasted thing was just off entirely.

“But you do it so well,” she encourages, butting her face up into his jaw. “I feel wholly inadequate.”

“No, you are much too kind. You’ve given me an experience in life I never knew I wanted,” he explains, moving to trace her lips with a finger even as they are still braided with hers when she pulls back.

“Stars, Din, your _voice_!” she laughs, burying her face into his neck again and squeezing his hands. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

He doesn’t think he will ever get over hearing his name on her tongue either, and the fact that she seems to like his voice only eggs him on more, so he too chuckles and murmurs lowly in Mando’a, trying to keep the cocky lilt from his tone.

Her resulting groan into his neck heats him further and she presses tightly into him, “What did you say?”

“I like the way you say my name,” he confesses softly as she pulls back and he releases her hands to rest his around her back again. “I haven’t heard it since I was a kid until recently. I never missed it but now I don’t ever want you to stop.”

She remains quiet for a moment and he wishes again he could see her face and the way he knows it must be flushed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say my name,” she reports, and although that sounds absurd, he doesn’t think he has said it outside of his own head.

So he leans in close to her ear, and when he whispers her name, his mouth brushes the shell of her ear so faintly his lips tingle. Her hand shoots up to the back of his head, clutching a grip at his hair and holding him against her ear as a shiver rakes her body.

He smiles against her ear and she lets out a shaky laugh as she allows him to retreat even though he doesn’t really want to.

They talk some more, quietly comfortable as she tucks herself against his chest and picks at his fingers. She seems completely enthralled by his voice, asking him to speak about anything, whatever comes to his mind, just so that she can listen. So he tells her about being saved by the Mandalorians as his home was destroyed, of beskar and his Creed, and learning what it meant to be Mandalorian. And there are parts of his past that he keeps to himself, not entirely out of shame at his younger days, but just because he isn’t ready to unload all that just yet.

It must be well past midnight when he runs out of things to say and she has traced every line of his skin that she can get her fingers on.

“I don’t want to say goodnight. I don’t know how I’m going to face you in daylight after this. I thought I watched you a lot before, but now I won’t be able to keep my eyes off you, knowing how you feel…,” she whispers, running her hands along his arms until she can squeeze at his biceps. He can hear breath catching as she leans in, drags her lips along the stubble at his jaw. “How you taste…”

“I thought we were supposed to be winding down,” he groans out, holding her tightly then letting out a pained laugh. “You can’t say things like that. I’ve never had to test out my restraint before.”

Maybe this is payback for the Mando’a thing before and he shouldn’t have teased her confession of liking his language, because now she was getting him back so much worse as she leans into his ear.

“That sounds good,” she murmurs, pressing her lips softly to his ear, and then he feels the gentle scrape of teeth.

A strangled gasp escapes from his throat and he clutches the table edge behind her. If you play with fire, you are bound to get burnt. But he wouldn’t mind being completely consumed by her warmth at this minute, deep-seated urges making their way to the surface.

But she is pulling back before his urges can take over and runs her hands through his hair soothingly, reminding him of the countless times he had seen her doing it to Winta. It settles his urges only slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she says guiltily and moves off his lap, laughing when his hands reach out for her again. Instead of letting his hands clasp her hips, she holds them in her own. “I should really go now, or I’ll never leave.”

He purses his lips and nods, a habit he has become used to but knows it is redundant in the dark. He stands too and they fumble their way to the door but are careful to remain in the complete darkness. Cara hadn’t been kidding, and there was no moonlight whatsoever, only the faint glow of lanterns outside the village hall. There was no risk of her seeing his face.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, distracting him from his internal justifications for removing his helmet. She reaches her arms around his form, bringing him into an embrace that he returns immediately, revelling in the feel of her in his arms. He can’t help burying his face into the hair behind her ear, trying to keep his inhale quiet. She smells of the cactus soap and what must just be her, and he knows he will never be able to wash with the soap without picturing her ever again.

When he bids her goodnight too, she holds his face in her hands and leans in to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“ _Nuhoy pirusti_. Sleep well,” he chokes out as she withdraws. Then she is giving a parting squeeze to his bicep and carefully manoeuvring out into the night.

From his spot he leans over to peer out the window, squinting his eyes into the dark to watch as her form passes by the village hall lantern and over into her own hut.

That certainly wasn’t what he had expected of the night.

He puts his helmet back on to regain his sight. He has cherished the nights where he has been able to sleep without his armour but decides against that tonight. It would require him to board up the barn completely, but he still feels a bit uneasy given today’s events and will be sleeping with one eye open. He knows he is probably concerned for nothing, but he wants to be able to intervene quickly if needed, not have to throw all his armour on haphazardly and struggle through the barricade.

He does, however, feel his chest tighten when he glances over at the kid’s hovering cradle. He owes the little one so much, hates that he has exhausted himself into an extended sleep. But it had given Din a way out of a seemingly impossible situation, one that meant the villagers still looked at him like he was their saviour. He treasures their praise, even as he sickens himself with how unworthy of it he truly is.

Sighing, he walks over to the cradle. He wants to let the kid have a good sleep, knows where he rests is the best place for him, but selfishly needs the little one’s comfort. So he opens it up and carefully gathers the bundle into his arms. The kid barely stirs and Din makes his way over to his cot, settling himself down to sleep with the blanket wrapped kid tucked into his side, furthest from the barn’s entrance. The kid’s ears twitch at the change in position and Din is warmed to see him unconsciously snuggle in closer.

He looks away from the kid to stare at the ceiling, his helmet thumping down onto the pillow. The feel of Omera against his lips still flits through his mind, and he feels as though he may be drunk from the spotchka he could taste on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much 4.5K words of just kisses, sorry! With how many words the headbutts have taken up previously, I had a feeling this might be a beast and warrant its own chapter. I couldn't wait to post this, so here it is! :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara does some background wingwomanary, Din is thinking of the future, and he clearly has some double standards when it comes to baby's abilities!

The next morning Omera is surprised to see Cara has woken before her when she shuffles into the sitting room of her hut, yawning as she goes. She is normally an early riser, but after last night she had gotten into bed much later than she normally would have. She found herself asleep within moments of hitting the pillow, her dreams filled with hesitant lips and nervous breaths. But she knows some of those had been real, and butterflies riot in her stomach at the thought of seeing him today.

Her face heats up and she takes note of Cara sitting at the table in her hut, and she herself slides into the seat opposite her, avoiding the other woman’s smug look.

“So… how was your night?”

Under normal circumstances, she liked the morning chats they had before venturing into the hall for breakfast, but she was very wary of the suggestive waggle to Cara’s brows. And automatically she thinks of Din’s lips, his taste, even though they’d been cut short before she could deepen the kiss further and really…

She stops that thought where it starts, pulling her mind from the gutter and playing with a loose thread on her apron. Upon waking she had braided her hair back more intricately than she normally would have, but now regrets not having her hair completely loose to cover her grin when she glances down.

“No?! Really?!” Cara barely gets out through a shocked laugh, eyes nearly popping out of her head and looking thoroughly scandalised. “How did you manage that? I didn’t think he’d have the guts.”

“No!” Omera blurts, knowing what Cara must assume, and stammers to correct her. “No. Not like that. We just… kissed.”

Cara still looks amazed but nods as if she had expected that. Omera is dumbfounded because that was the last thing she had expected of the night when Cara had left.

“Just… once?” Cara urges and Omera feels her own smile widen impossibly further. Was it only once? It definitely wasn’t just a peck, but she supposed it would only count as one. One amazing, long, passionate one. She had also kissed his jaw, his ear, did those count?

“No,” she decides, better than embarrassing herself with her other explanation. She presses her cool hands to her cheeks in an attempt to lessen their burning and meets Cara’s teasing gaze. “Don’t look at me like that! I don’t want to disrespect him. He’s so private, you know him.”

“Well, not as much as you, clearly. Look at you, you’re blushing!”

“I know! I’m a grown woman, but he makes me feel nervous like this is my first love. I never thought I’d feel this again. I haven’t… not with anyone since Winta’s father,” Omera explains, puts her head in her hands with a groan. “Stars! I don’t know how to face him now.”

Cara roars with laughter then reaches out to give Omera’s shoulder a firm squeeze, “Kriff, you poor thing. You must want to jump him!”

Omera immediately looks up from her hands with an appalled laugh, slapping at Cara’s outstretched arm, “You are such a bad influence.”

Cara just gives a satisfied shrug and waits. Despite all her teasing, Cara has always been a good listener and had a knack for knowing when Omera had something she wanted to get off her chest.

“I’m nervous to push him,” she finally relents, watching as Cara’s expression goes from being smug to considerate, nodding and face open so Omera knows she can tell her anything. Omera quickly glances behind her, making sure Winta hasn’t entered the room while she’d been distracted. “…But I _want_ him so much. Everything with him is so intense because it’s all new to him, but he… he learns quickly…”

And as soon as the confession is out, she cannot face Cara, sinking her face back down into her shaking hands.

He had learnt quickly, in every sense, as if since the first time he lent his helmet against her the other day, he has slowly been working his way up to more contact. When she’d stood last night and taken his hand, the last thing she had expected was for him to invite her into his lap, tug her there even. He had seemed surprised at first too, and she supposes she was the same, her body working without her prior instruction and gravitating towards him.

He’d had her completely enchanted the moment she met him, and it had only gotten stronger.

“It’s hard to believe actually, how has no-one sought him out before?” she continues, surprised Cara hasn’t interjected at some point yet.

“What do you mean?” Cara cocks her head to the side, looking uncharacteristically confused.

“Well, what do you think of him?”

“Me?” Cara stutters comically, pointing a finger at herself with a laugh. When Omera does nothing but await her response, she blows out a breath and shrugs. “Well, I suppose we met under different circumstances, and to me he has only ever been a friend.”

She looks contemplative, mouth pursed in thought then gives a nod, “But I see the allure. Maybe at first, I thought he was kind of hot, if that’s possible without seeing what someone actually looks like.”

“Definitely possible. It’s his mannerisms, his voice, and when he speaks his _language_ …,” Omera agrees too eagerly and Cara gives her an eyebrow raise and mocking laugh.

“Well, yeah,” Cara continues, still laughing. “And then once he met you, I knew there was no hope for anyone else.”

Omera blanches, feeling her chest swell with happiness at Cara’s words, but doubting their truth. “I don’t think…” she trails off as she sees Winta emerge from her room.

“Don’t try to disagree with me,” Cara blatantly cuts her off, standing from her own chair and ruffling the groggy child’s head. “I’ve never seen someone make eyes like he does at you. And I can’t even _see_ his eyes, so I know he’s got it bad.”

Winta blinks up at Cara then gives her mother a confused look, “What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing, love,” Omera quickly deflects, raising too and ushering them all out of the hut. “Let’s go have some breakfast.”

And the conversation is dropped as they make their way to the hall, Winta dragging her feet and rubbing her eyes, and Cara puffing her chest out with satisfaction. Omera gives her a warning look, but cannot stop the smile that spreads on her lips.

She secretly hopes the other woman was right.

* * *

Din is awoken the minute the kid pops his head up from the crook of his arm. Despite sleeping lightly the night before and being conscious of every noise the forest made, he felt well-rested in a way that had become customary on Sorgan. The kid had slept right through, not waking but snuggling closer and clutching at Din’s arm occasionally.

Din now remains still as he watches the kid watch him, not letting the little one into the fact that Din was in fact also awake. Small claws get a grip on Din’s chest plate and the kid clambers his way onto his chest, settling himself to stare intently into the visor and Din is happy to see him returned to his old self. The kid gives a questioning chirp and reaches his little hands to hold the cheeks of his helmet, but when his eyes turn sad and his lower lip juts out Din isn’t sure if it is because he thinks he is asleep, or because the helmet is on.

“Good morning, _ad’ika_ ,” Din rumbles, voice hoarse from sleep, and presses his bare hands over the kid’s on his helmet.

Instantly his little face lights up and he croons, tipping forward to touch his wrinkled forehead to the helmet. But the angle is all wrong and the kid loses his balance and ends up slumping on the visor instead. He lets loose an infectious giggle and slaps the helmet without much strength.

Din laughs too and lifts him up as he pulls himself into a sitting position, placing the kid on his lap as he rolls his shoulders and yawns. The wound in his leg is but a dull ache and he stretches the muscle out to test its strength as the kid starts gnawing on the pendant around his neck.

“You must be hungry,” Din observes warmly, extracting the pendant from the kid’s mouth and holding him close as he stands. “You did good yesterday, _ad’ika_. I’ll get you some proper food.”

He collects his gloves from the table on his way out and his eyes catch the tray of food sitting on the bench from last night. He had completely forgotten about it after all that had happened but is glad to see that it is just fruit and rolls wrapped in cloth, and would not go to waste. He supposes he could eat here with the kid, but he thinks the kid needs a proper breakfast…

Who is he kidding? He really just wants to see Omera.

He shakes his head at himself and makes his way to the hall. The sun is high in the sky and he estimates it must be late morning, he hopes he hasn’t missed the morning meal. It might just be leftovers in the barn after all.

When he enters the hall, he finds that everyone has clearly already had their breakfast and gotten on with their days’ work, as it is empty save for the village children having their daily lessons. He almost turns right around the minute he walks in, not wanting to disrupt their time as he appreciates the importance of education from his time with the covert. He hadn’t spent a whole lot of time underground with them, as despite being accepted and having a place with the covert, he still felt like an outsider. He was sure it was more to do with him than anything else, the damage had been done when his first home was destroyed. The Mandalorian’s had always made him feel welcome and secure, but he knows he has some deep-seated issues that he has only just begun to acknowledge, let alone tackle and resolve.

The thought produces a pang of sadness and grief. He had been unable to make contact with anyone from the covert since leaving Nevarro despite multiple attempts, radio silence was all that answered him. Despite all his insecurities, they were still his home and the closest thing to family he has ever had since it was torn from him as a child.

But looking at the kid in his arms and catching the sight of the back of Winta’s wild hair amongst the other kids, he thinks maybe that is changing. He owes his tribe so much, and he wouldn’t forget that just because of the kindness they’ve shown him here, but having his own clan within that just hadn’t been something he’d ever considered until now.

His internal ramblings distract him and before he can retreat without being noticed, Pippa, who is clearly taking the lessons, glances up and gives him a wide smile. He watches as she quickly rattles off some instructions to the kids and then is making her way over to his position.

He doesn’t really know how to face her after yesterday, much less speak to her, but it seems he doesn’t have much choice when she stops in front of him.

“I don’t…,” she begins as if she too doesn’t know what to say, fidgeting nervously before him where she had been all smiles and confidence a moment ago from across the hall. “I can’t thank you enough, for what you’ve done. I’m so sorry for the danger my brother put you and your son in. And then you _defended_ him, protected him, and all the rest of us. And now you’re hurt. I don’t even…”

“Your brother is a good man,” Din tells her when she looks at a loss for words. He may not believe it himself, but he thinks it is what she needs to hear. “He just lost his Way. He will find it again, and then return to you as the man you know he is.”

She smiles even as her forehead crumples in grief, but she looks as if his words have put her at ease. He can tell she is trying to put on a brave face, and clearly the kid in his arms can too because he makes a sad warble and reaches a hand towards the woman. She lets out a saddened laugh and brings her index finger within reach so his claws and wrap around it securely and he chirps in glee. And as usual, it is almost impossible to be sad around the little one. It is as if Pippa’s worries dissolve, not for good, but just enough to allow her to get on with her life.

“It is a blessing you two have come into our lives, may your soul find ties here,” she smiles, quickly bowing her head before removing her hand from the kid’s and he is instantly reminded of the spiritual bonds this village has. Of the charms Omera weaves and the threads of the funeral pyre. He feels himself choked at the offering they have continued to give him and the kid, and he does feel an inexplicit tie to this place.

“Have a seat, some food has been saved for you, so I’ll bring it over,” she explains and ushers him over to a nearby table with a firm pressure to his back when he doesn’t move right away.

Her nerves from before having well and truly disappeared and it strikes him that these people were getting more accustomed to him, even willingly touching him in a way people were normally fearful of doing.

Sorgan has made him soft, but if softness meant acceptance, he figures maybe it isn’t all bad.

He sits down and helps the kid get into a better position for eating by hoisting him up on an overturned basket on the bench. He wars with the kid to try roll his sleeves up, but his little arms keep waving this way and that out of Din’s grip as if it is a game. The kid is giggling at Din’s efforts, and he finds himself even letting loose a very soft chuckle.

Soon he sees Pippa emerging from the cooking area with two bowls, sending a warning to the children to continue their work and leave him to eat in peace. A chorus of grumbles are heard but he sees Winta shoot him a toothy grin and a wave. He tips his head in acknowledgement and then Pippa is setting the bowls in front of him.

“I know you won’t eat here, so I can watch him if you want to go back to the barn. Otherwise, there is some packed food you can take with you when he is done,” she explains.

He smiles at her offer, everyone here was always so thoughtful, but is suddenly occupied as the kid cannot get the food into his mouth fast enough.

“Thank you,” he replies, trying to get the kid to hold a spoon. “I think he will probably devour both of these, so some packed food would be good. Thank you.”

She gives a final smile, a small laugh at the kid, and then returns to the children gathered in the corner talking quietly between themselves, so Din is left to watch the kid make a mess.

He thinks maybe the spoon is a hindrance with the broth they have been served, as all the kid has managed to do is flick it all over his face in an attempt to reach his mouth.

Din bites his tongue to hold back his laugh when the kid looks at him upset, ears drooping and drips of thick broth running down from his forehead.

“ _Besom_ ,” Din chuckles lowly to him, teasing him about having no manners and using a cloth to wipe the mess away. He knows the kid can hear the affection in his words as his ears perk up and he chirps in response.

“You’re chipper this morning,” Cara suddenly sounds, appearing across from him and sliding onto the bench there. “Anything to do with last night?”

He looks up as he sets the cloth back down and takes the spoon away, allowing the kid to slurp at the broth instead. When he reaches Cara’s eyes he is unsure what he sees there.

“I was meaning to find you and say thank you,” he says, surprising himself with how self-satisfied the tone comes across.

“Yeah?” she grins, waggling her eyebrows and kicking at his foot under the table in teasing. “Did you have a late-night snack?”

He tips his helmet to the side and screws his face up at her vulgar choice of wording, “Can you not?”

“Aw, come on! I’m just playing,” she laughs, folding her arms on the table, eager for information. “Do you want to tell me about it? I’ll even braid your hair, but you’ll have to lose the tin can.”

She’s making fun of him, reminiscent of a gushing girl, and he goes to stand, ignoring her.

“Don’t be so dramatic!” she sighs, humour still evident in her eyes, and places a firm hand on his arm. He is secretly glad because he _couldn’t_ have actually left with the kid still eating and would have made a fool of himself. But she didn’t have to know that.

“I’m sorry, okay? What’s up?”

He lets out a sigh and adjusts himself to get comfortable again before responding, “It was… good. Really good.”

“Come on! You’ve gotta give me more than that! It’s been a dry spell for me, so I’ve got to live my sex life vicariously through you.”

“Were you always this perverted?” he asks, stunned at her outburst then looking to the kid and wondering if this was a suitable conversation to be having around him. He also gives a pointed look to the other children in the corner but knows they wouldn’t be able to hear from their distance.

Cara just shrugs at his obvious concerns but does lower her voice, “Only since being around the two of you and sensing the sexual tension a mile away. So, what happened? Did she haul your armour off the minute I left? Well, try to at least?”

She laughs at her own joke, but he finds it less than funny. He knows her teasing means little, and she mostly does it to lighten the mood, but underneath she was a true friend and wanted to help.

“What about your helmet?” she pauses briefly, but Din would never have been able to answer because she keeps rambling. “Give me a play by play.”

And finally, she seems to be out of words and just watches him expectantly, so he sighs, he would have to tell her sooner or later.

“We didn’t turn the lantern back on… I took my helmet off and…,” he sighs again, somehow it was much harder to voice than it had been to actually commit the act. “And we kissed. That’s all.”

The teasing light in her eyes had vanished the minute he started talking, and now she looks at him with the softest expression he has ever seen on her face, “How was that?”

How was it? He had spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to answer that very question himself.

“Freeing,” he finally decides, picking at his fingers on the table before him. “It doesn’t feel like I’ve tried to find a loophole. I thought that once I took it off, that I’d feel guilt or even resent having to put it back on…”

A quick glance at her face again shows nothing but invested friendship, and he turns to look as the kid has finished his first bowl and moves onto the second, “But in my mind, she is my clan, just like him. I put it back on to protect them, and I’ll use my life as a shield whenever I have to.”

Cara remains silent and he thinks maybe in his emotional confession that he had spoken too low for her to hear. But when he glances back at her, she is staring back at him amazed, mouth very slightly agape and making him nervous with her silence.

“What? No witty remark this time?” he asks.

She shakes her head at him, seems to stammer before she finally can get the words out, “Din, that’s beautiful. Why don’t you tell her?”

“It’s too soon,” it is his turn to shake his head, at her unexpected compliment and her suggestion that he tell Omera. “Outside Mandalorians, I don’t think people exactly expect a marriage proposal after a first kiss. In my culture we don’t even kiss in that sense before being bonded.”

There is a slight widening of Cara’s eyes and he thinks he has probably said too much. He wonders how much teasing he will have to endure now that he has mentioned marriage, but instead Cara continues on as if it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“If she’s your clan, does that mean she can see your face? Like the little one?”

“Yes, but that’s more to do with me than her in this case,” he begins, this was getting way too complicated way too quickly. “I’m not ready. He’s seen my face because I’m his father, I feel that love is almost unconditional. But with Omera… I’m nervous, what if she doesn’t like what she sees?”

Cara looks ready to protest but he shrugs anyway and continues.

“She’s told me she thinks I’d be handsome, that she knows me to be, but in reality that is far from true. Besides, I haven’t exactly asked her to be my clan. I don’t know how and I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t agree now that I’ve taken my helmet off with her.”

He hates how insecure he sounds, but it was just a fact of life when you’ve gone so long without ever having to worry about looks, or how they will be received by others.

“Din…,” Cara trails off, looking at a loss for words and brows scrunched in sympathy.

“I’ve made a mess of things. I’m a _di’kut_ ,” he sighs, but despite everything, there wasn’t a second of last night that he regrets.

“If you showed even an inkling of interest, she would be yours in a heartbeat,” Cara argues, and he doesn’t want to give himself false hope, but the thought makes the lump in his throat that much harder to swallow around.

“Just because she kissed me doesn’t mean she’s mine,” he sighs, absently patting a hand to the kid’s back. He warbles in response, tilting his head in a way that had become characteristic of the little one and it makes Din’s chest tighten more to think maybe he picked up that habit from himself.

“ _She_ kissed _you_?” Cara teases as if she knows more than she is letting on.

“…well no. I started it,” he clarifies, but he is sure he hadn’t mentioned that _he_ had in fact initiated the kiss. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind anyway and turns back to her, keeping a grounding hand on the little one’s back. “Whose point are you trying to prove? Because _I_ started it, it’s even more reason to be wary of her feelings.”

And Cara finally relents with a sigh as she knows he is stubborn and too cautious to accept the possibility that he could find happiness, “Well, take it slow then. In any case, I’m happy for the both of you.”

“Thank you. Has she…,” Din starts too eagerly, then thinks better of it and trails off to feign disinterest. “…said anything to you? Asked about me?”

The grin on Cara’s face is blinding and her eyes light up too, clearly Din had failed, “Here and there,” she explains. “Girl talk, you know?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Din mumbles, suddenly self-conscious and entirely unsure how he feels about that. Cara just gives him an exaggerated eye roll.

“Oh stop, don’t worry. She’s much too decent. It’s like pulling teeth to get her to say anything,” Cara explains, setting his nerves at ease and she can probably tell because her teasing grin from before dissolves into a kind smile. “But she is happy, really happy.”

“That is… really good to hear.”

Cara pauses in thought for all of one second, then leans forward over the table and whispers, “Just between us, she did say she wants you really bad…like _wants_ you… but also likes taking it slow.”

His mouth drops open at that prospect and he is glad he has the helmet to cover his surprise. Then Cara leans back, but still works to keep her words mostly hushed, “I don’t want to betray her confidence, but it seems like you need the reassurance so, there you have it.”

“Thank you,” he quickly gets out, thinking in the back of his mind that he is tallying up all the people he owes his thanks to, and he is unlikely to ever be able to compensate. “I was concerned about that. To me, it feels as though we are moving so fast, but I know by normal standards that’s not the case. I don’t want her to get bored.”

Cara snorts so loud that some of the children in the corner look their way, even the kid at his side pauses with the bowl halfway to his mouth to turn to her in alarm at what that noise could have been.

“Trust me,” she drawls. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Haven’t you ever heard of wanting what you can’t have?”

“But she can have me. She already has a part of me,” he counters and the scandalous quirk to Cara’s face can only spell trouble. She gives him another kick under the table and makes a show of sitting up tall to peer down the table and into his lap.

“Which part?” she teases, indicating to his belt with a jutted chin.

The indignity of her mocking assumption doesn’t even warrant his reply and he ignores her implication.

“ _Ner kar’ta_ ,” he says instead, _my heart_.

Cara lets a boisterous laugh loose and jabs a finger at him, “She also mentioned that! Speak your language and she’ll follow you anywhere!”

Well, that he already knew, but it was nice to have confirmation anyway. He found comfort in his own language, and the kid seemed to too, but he’d be fooling himself if he didn’t admit that he liked the effect it had on Omera and had used it to his advantage at times.

“ _Kriff_ , Din. You’re making me leak trade secrets. Anyway, I gotta go,” and just like that she is standing and moving off to exit the hall.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he replies smugly, watching her walk away but then suddenly an idea strikes him. “You don’t tell her what we discuss, do you?”

Cara pivots around to face him again even as she retreats and sends him a truly concerning smirk and only shrugs.

He knows he is unlikely to get a better response than that, so doesn’t bother chasing after and hounding her like he really wants.

He glances down at the kid with a sigh and sees he has finished eating, having demolished both bowls and is looking up at him with a blank look of content and little splodges of broth all over his face.

Din huffs a laugh and cleans him up before gathering him in one arm and picking up the bowls in the other, “Alright, let’s go, kid.”

He walks to the stream where he had washed the bowls last time with Omera and kneels to get to work, surprised that his thigh gives him no grief aside from a small tug at the wound. A stern warning to the kid has him staying well back from the slowly flowing water and Din removes his gloves to tuck them into his belt. He can hear the heavy breathing that sounds her approach.

“Hi,” Winta grins from his shoulder, hands clasped behind her back and leaning over to watch him.

Din spares her a quick glance before returning to the stream, “Shouldn’t you be in lessons?”

“It’s morning break,” she says cheerily and moves to pick up the kid when he extends his hands to her with a coo. “Can I hang out with you for a bit.”

“Sure.”

He has finished washing away the mess the little one had made so makes his way back to the barn to return the bowls, telling Winta he will meet her at the tree by the gravesite. The kid liked the spot and it gave Din a good overview of the whole village.

After dropping off the bowls, Pippa pushes the parcel of food into his hands with a smile. He thanks her and makes his way back to Winta when he catches sight of Omera in the furthermost pond, hard at work.

It makes his stomach flip at seeing her and remembering the night before. He desperately wants to go to her, his body and soul pulled to hers as if by magnets. They had always told him this is what being away from your _aliit_ , especially your _riduur_ , would feel like, but he didn’t know it was literal. Yet in the same breath, he doesn’t want to disrupt her work and doesn’t even know how to approach her after he had kissed her so clumsily.

He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind as his face heats under the helmet. Winta beams up at him as he approaches her and sits against the tree. The kid is playing with a collection of pebbles once again and Winta flips herself over onto her stomach to watch him, chin propped on her hands and feet swaying in the air.

The kid looks to Winta and she immediately pulls a silly face, widening her eyes and puffing out her cheeks comically. He squeals in joy and stumbles to get his little feet under him to waddle the small distance over to her.

The expression falls from her face and she stills as he touches his hands to her still puffed cheeks. Her dark eyes flick to Din and he can see she isn’t worried, just curious.

“What’s he doing?” she asks, looking back to the kid as he leans his head forward.

Din is surprised at the kid’s advance and worried for a moment that she might pull back and hurt the kid’s feelings. But instead, she stays stock-still.

“It’s how he shows affection,” Din replies, chest tightening at the sight. Especially when Winta angles her head to give the kid better access to her forehead. “How Mandalorians do.”

The smile that lights Winta’s face is blinding and when the kid leans back with a chirp, she pats his head and thanks him.

“Is there something else I can call you?” she suddenly asks Din, and the kid goes back to his pebbles. “Saying Mandalorian is annoying and I keep messing it up anyway.”

“You haven’t been calling me ‘Dad’ all this time?” Din answers sarcastically before he can stop himself. He regrets it instantly, thinking how insensitive it was, and forgetting that she was just a kid. It was easy to forget with how mature she seemed in all other regards.

“I was teasing! It just slipped out,” Winta laughs instead of getting embarrassed and offended as he’d assumed. She truly was a remarkable kid.

“As long as you don’t call me Hank,” he says blankly, and the kid turns to him with a strange expression. He thinks it might be distaste on the little one’s face, an unfamiliar expression as the kid was mostly happy all the time.

“My name is Din,” he finally says. “Only your mother and Cara know.”

“Oh, is it a secret! I’m good with secrets.”

He has no doubt of that, and the prospect seems to excite her beyond words. He had been wary when he first told Omera, he’d told no one outside of the covert before, but because Moff Gideon had known it, it was probably best to keep it quiet. Though his beskar was more likely to get him recognised than his name. So, it wasn’t a secret, he just hadn’t met anyone he cared about enough to tell.

“No, I just haven’t used it in a long time, but you can call me that too if you like.”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone!” she says proudly. “Can we keep it a secret?”

So he nods, it doesn’t bother him either way, but he would do whatever he could to keep that joyful smile on her face.

“Do you like my Mama?” she suddenly blurts, and he is reminded of how her conversations have switched between topics so quickly in the past too.

He is blindsided by the question and doesn’t know how to answer. He is glad the helmet’s audio doesn’t pick up the croaking sound from his throat as he hesitates.

“It’s okay if you do,” she continues when he still doesn’t make a noise. She says it so offhand as if it weren’t a big deal. If a girl who had never known a father felt comfortable with another man showing interest in her mother, then he surely was pathetic for any misgivings he had.

He is drawn from his self-doubt when he hears Pippa calling from the hall for the kids to return to their lessons. Winta makes a grumble of disappointment and rolls up onto her knees. The kid looks up at her movements with a curious chirp and she crawls the short distance to him.

“I have to go,” she smiles down at him then leans forward on her hands and knees to touch her forehead to his. “Is this right?”

Din looks at the two of them, heads gently pressed together. Winta’s cheeks are flushed as she smiles and the little one looks so content, small hands clasped together as he sits still for her.

“Hmm,” he confirms, not really sure if he would be able to speak.

Winta smiles wider and withdraws, cocking her head to the side as if to ask the kid, ‘ _how was that?_ ’

She is _so_ _much_ like her mother. And he laughs to himself at thinking the kid is so much like him, staring blankly back.

“And this is how we show affection,” she explains, then kisses the dip between the kid’s big eyes. “Bye!”

She pulls herself up from the ground and is running off back to the hall, throwing a wave back at them. The kid watches her retreat, his small mouth curling up and puckering as if testing the motion of kissing.

When she disappears from sight, the kid turns back to Din and he merely points to the forgotten collection of pebbles. The kid settles back down with them, occupies himself, and Din watches Omera in the ponds.

He feels as if he should be pulling his weight, doing chores, but he suspects no one would let him anyway. He figures he will sit with the kid a bit until he is ready for a nap then he can put him down and help out wherever they’ll let him. He should be doing his drills again but doesn’t want to test his leg out too much since it was healing surprisingly well. _And_ he had to start looking for the kid’s family.

He sighs heavily and leans back against the tree. There is so much he should be doing, yet his mind swims only with the touch of Omera’s lips and her weight over him.

He is watching her so intently as she works and is why he sees when she goes down.

It happens so quickly that he sits forward shocked, hands bracing on the ground ready to jump up. She had been wading to the pond edge, pulling a basket along the water’s surface behind her, then appeared to stumble and loose her footing. She just barely saved her head going under and he is up and running to her, having scooped the kid up on the way.

Adrenaline pulses in his veins and he doesn’t even feel the pain in his thigh now. She was in the furthermost pond so by the time he has nearly reached its edge, some of the other farmers had helped her out and onto the bank. One had pulled out a small knife and sliced through the soft material of the boots she wears when in the ponds. He can see the clear swelling and deformity around her ankle.

She is soaked from her neck down, hair clumped in thick wet tendrils and a barely concealed grimace on her face. She opens her eyes just as he skids to a stop before her, the others looking up at him too.

“Hey,” she breathes, smiling weakly and clearly trying to downplay her pain. “I can be so clumsy sometimes. I must have tripped on a root.”

“It looks broken, Omera,” a man says with concern, and Din cannot remember his name at the moment, heart racing and mind frantic at the idea of her being hurt. He imagines he would still be the same if it were a mere papercut.

Din kneels down and sets the warbling kid down too, “Omera…”

“I’ll be fine,” she tries again, reaching out and gripping his elbow firmly to reassure him. It was _so her_ , to try to comfort someone else when she was in pain.

He doesn’t know what to say, mouth working behind his helmet but nothing coming out. The deep frown in her brow striking him in the chest with the force of a blaster, but the beskar can’t protect him from this.

He absently sees the kid at his side looking between himself and Omera, ears drooping with a sad coo. Then he waddles over and reaches a small hand to place it on Omera’s shin, looking up at Din with a tilt to his head.

The kid wants to heal her and his heart breaks to ask this of him.

“Please, _ad’ika_ ,” Din nods, voice thick with emotion and barely audible. He never wanted the kid to have to use his abilities, but Din cannot stand to see her in pain. “Please…”

And the little one just coos happily and turns back to focus on Omera. She is looking at Din with a questioning look between the grimaces.

“He will help you,” Din whispers, threading his fingers between hers and squeezing tightly. She squeezes back and again he thinks she is comforting him instead of the other way around.

He is barely even aware of the other farmers around them watching with amazement. Whether at the clear affection he is showing Omera, or the ability of the kid, he cannot find it in himself to consider at the moment. Not while Omera is sitting before him injured.

The frown on Omera’s face slowly subsides as does the swelling as her ankle straightens out and she looks to the kid incredulously. The kid removes his hand from her leg, having finished but doesn’t slump like he normally does, just turns to look up at Din with a coo. He must be getting stronger, used to this, and the thought makes Din feel that much worse.

Din wraps his free arm around his small form and pulls him against his chest plate, tipping his helmet down to settle it against the kid’s head, “Thank you _, ad’ika_. I’m so sorry.”

Omera adjusts her position too, settling her hand that Din isn’t grasping against the kid’s rounded cheek, dark eyes looking deeply into Din’s helmet. The little one looks to her happily and nudges his cheek into her hand, drawing her attention back to him and she gives a warm smile.

“Thank you,” she whispers too, and the kid looks between Din and her as if he doesn’t understand what the big deal is.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roles are reversed, Din makes progress on his guest, and there are many farewells (just for now!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, sorry for the delayed update! Ahhh! I never had a particular schedule but I really don't like when I'm not writing, it makes me sad :( But sometimes life gets in the way!  
> Secondly, I thought I'd try out this Tumblr thing?! I stumbled across it and am so happy I did, though I have no idea what to do.  
> [Here's a link!](https://manfieme.tumblr.com) if you... I don't know, want to look at a very empty page!  
> Lastly, thank you for reading!!! :D

Omera can see the second Din is over his distress at seeing her hurt and realises they are surrounded by a small group of speechless krill farmers. His helmet suddenly jerks around, taking in their amazed faces and instinctively clutching the buddle of miracle closer to his chest. She too found herself at a loss for words, but she had seen the child levitate a heavy basket of krill and compel grown men into abandoning their pursuit, so she was somewhat eased into this spectacle.

“We won’t tell anyone. We would never put you or your son in danger,” someone remarks finally, though she is too engrossed in watching Din to take notice of who.

She can see the cogs ticking under his helmet, evaluating the situation and deciding on the best course of action. It is as if it is fated to keep him from her, how many times would she have to convince him that he didn’t have to leave?

“Thank you,” he finally murmurs, and she can see the inaudible sigh he tries to hide. He tips his helmet down to the child, muttering lowly in his language again and again. The grief in his tone is plain to hear and the child seems to be trying his best to comfort his father, patting a little hand to the fiercely cut angles of his helmet.

“Alright, back to work,” the same man from before calls, moving the other farmers on. “Nothing to see here. You good, Omera?”

She finally pulls her eyes from Din’s helmet and to the face of the man hovering at her shoulder with a mildly concerned look. Though there was no denying that her ankle was well and truly healed, be it a bit tender.

“I’m fine now,” she smiles up at him, finally recognising the voice now that her thoughts weren’t consumed by Din. “Thank you, Dom.”

“I’ll take it from here,” Din grunts out, not unkindly, but clearly concerned for his boy.

Dom thanks him again with a kind smile and moves on to continue with the days’ work, squeezing her shoulder as he goes.

Then they are alone by the krill pond edge and all she can think of is his lips. There is a dull ache in her ankle, barely noticeable, and much less obvious than the rolling ache deep in her stomach.

“Good morning,” he mumbles lowly into the silence, and she realises she has spent too long thinking of last night.

“Good morning,” she replies with a small laugh, all nerves and unable to meet his helmeted gaze now. “I was surprised when I didn’t see you at breakfast.”

“I didn’t realise the time, I slept very well.”

“As did I,” she smiles back, feeling her face heat and adjusting her position. She thinks she hears a small huff of a laugh from him and then he is depositing the child in her lap. It is now that she notices the child’s big eyes are blinking slowly, lids drooping and looking on the verge of sleep. She feels Din’s regret, the child had only just recovered from his last bout of ability-induced sleep.

“I’ll take you back to your hut, you should rest your ankle,” Din instructs, inching towards her and strategically placing his arms around her back and legs.

“Din…,” she trails off in warning and lets out a small surprised yelp when he hoists her up as he stands. “Din! I can walk.”

He just shrugs with her in his arms, as if she weighs nothing, and begins towards her hut. She knows there is no arguing with him, so she doesn’t protest, just cradles the child securely as they both get taken for a ride.

She would be embarrassed at everyone seeing her being carried like some damsel in distress if she wasn’t so ecstatic to be in his arms, the gentle sway of his gait giving her an excuse to lean into his chest. Even the cool beskar digging into her in various parts of her body cannot distract from the heat that rolls off him, his fingers a firm but comforting pressure.

And now her mind has cleared enough to remember that he is actually injured. The wound to his thigh was much more significant than her ankle. Her memory now makes the connection that he had prevented his boy from healing him then, is what he had meant when he had waved the child off. But before she can voice all those concerns, Din is stepping them into the empty sitting area of her hut and she realises they are alone, out of sight, and her mind is now wholly distracted by that concept.

He has been characteristically quiet too and startles her when he asks where her room is, where he can set her on her bed, and she directs him there shakily. Once he spies her bed, he gently eases her down onto it and her heart is pounding at the intimacy of it.

“I imagined this a hundred times differently,” she manages to whisper, hoping he can catch her humour through the breathless laugh. The child is asleep, curled up in her lap, so she doesn’t see anything wrong with leaning forward and butting into Din’s helmet gently while he is still close.

He firmly presses the hand that is around the small of her back closer to hold her against him as he nuzzles back. She has just reached her hand around to the back of his neck, not really sure what she means to do because she surely cannot pull him down on top of her like she wants to with his boy still between them. But then there is the sound of heavy boots and skittish steps as others enter the hut and make their way to them. Din gives a final squeeze of her against his chest, a firmer pressure of his helmet against her forehead, and then he is backing away, grabbing spare blankets and pillows to wedge under her leg.

“Mama!” Winta cries, bursting into the room frantically and eyes wild as they meet her own. “What happened?!”

Winta darts to her side, eyes searching her face and then moving to where Din is elevating her leg.

“It’s just a sprain,” Omera reassures her daughter, stroking Winta’s dishevelled hair back into place and laughing lightly, hoping it will put her mind at ease. “I twisted my ankle in the ponds. It’s nothing, he is overreacting.”

Winta seems mostly placated, perching at her side, but the set of her mouth still looks upset. She is recounting what led to the tumble, most likely a loose root, while Din works to remove her other boot. She tries to keep the widening of her eyes to a minimum but has no hope of avoiding the blush that rushes up her neck. She can’t help but snap her eyes to Cara and regrets it instantly when she sees the ever-present smirk she sends back.

“What about her clothes?” Cara teases, though thankfully it seems to go right over Winta’s head. “She’s getting the bed all wet.”

She freezes and sees Din does the same, hand pausing on her calf and the other around her boot. She hadn’t even realised she was still completely soaked, and clearly he hadn’t either. He clears his throat and removes his hands from her, boot already off, just as Winta looks panicked.

“You said it wasn’t that bad! But you can’t even dress yourself?” Winta cries again, eyes trailing up and down her then looking to Cara with sorrow plain on her face.

“She’s just teasing,” Omera soothes and sends Cara a stern glare when Winta isn’t looking.

“But your mother does need to rest and keep her foot up,” Din interjects, moving from the foot of the bed to tenderly stroke the child’s sleeping face.

“Your boy can rest with me, then. I’m okay from here,” she assures him, knowing from the lines of his shoulders that he is concerned, most likely for both her and the child.

He gives a tip of his helmet in recognition and then they are filing out of the hut to go speak with Caben. Winta remains behind for a while and needs a little extra reassurance. Omera allows her to retrieve her a dry change of clothes and help change the bedding but then sends the reluctant girl to return to her lessons. And then Omera is by herself aside from the slumbering child tucked into her side.

She feels useless. The minuscule pain in her ankle is barely even a reminder of her accident, but she knows she will face the wrath of three concerned people if she leaves this hut. She huffs to herself and settles in, watches the child sleep peacefully for a moment before the quiet birdsong and sounds of the village at work also lull her to sleep.

* * *

After leaving Omera, Din and Cara find Caben in the shed, shelling and deveining a large basket of krill. On the short walk over he had purposefully avoided glancing Cara’s way, even had to stop her in her tracks with a blunt, “Not a word,” when she began her normal teasing.

But thankfully she is all business when they reach Caben, pulling out two crates for them to sit opposite the man while he works.

“I don’t know much,” Caben begins dejectedly, flicking the finished krill onto a nearby tray and grabbing another. “It isn’t documented very well, at least from what I could find on a planet such as Sorgan, but the merchant in town knew a bit so I chatted with her for a while.”

“I remember the tent when I went to town the other day, she knew of my culture,” Din responds, remembering the taunting the woman had given Omera with a deep roll in his gut, clearly she had been asking about his people. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind, he treasured it, but now was not the time to get sappy about Omera’s interest.

“Yeah, it is how I knew who you were the first time you visited. But she also knew of an order of people who could connect with what we cannot see, manipulate the environment using the ‘Force’. I have to assume that is what your son was doing,” he explains, shaking his head incredulously and the excitement clear in his eyes. “But you knew that?”

“More or less,” he confirms and sees the alarmed look Cara shoots him. “Mandalorians… we are a culture of foundlings. _I_ was a foundling. But this child, he is not strong enough, at least in a physical sense, to be raised and trained as I was. So, the kid is under my protection and I’ve been tasked with finding his people. But before you, I had not found a lead on where to start. One of my tribe called them ‘Jedi’, once an enemy of Mandalore.”

When he is finished speaking, Caben is staring at him in wonder and he can see his mind ticking over.

“Well,” Cara exhales into the silence, clapping her hands together and looking between them. “This just took a sharp left turn into complicated.”

“I can’t imagine the kid being an enemy of anyone,” Din mentions, and Cara lets out a humoured scoff. “Well, unless they are trying to injure me, that is.”

He thinks of the few times when the kid had used his powers against Din’s enemies. Both real and perceived, for that’s the only reason he can think of that the little one would have targeted Cara during their arm wrestle. He hadn’t done it again, and there had been true sadness in his big eyes afterwards.

Cara had forgiven him instantly, recognising the conflict the kid must have seen and only wanting to protect Din. Since that time, the kid had been just as comfortable around Cara as he had around Din and the incident wasn’t mentioned again.

“What else did she say of the Jedi?” Din asks Caben again, getting back on track.

“The Jedi Purge… they were hunted… the Order destroyed. There are whispers of very few survivors. I spoke to her when she returned about a year ago. The star system she was in, she mentioned a strange energy there and spoke of the legends the people discussed around bonfires,” Caben explains, brow furrowed in thought and dark eyes cast in memory.

“This star system, where is it?” Din asks, feeling hope rise where he thought it long snuffed out.

“Well…,” Caben trails off, looking sheepish. “I know she said it was in the Mid Rim, though the name… I can’t quite…”

“If we use to navigator on his ship, would you be able to locate it?” Cara butts in, sternly looking at Caben with enough ferocity to make even Din nervous. He feels bad for the guy, he is very decent, if a little vacant at times.

“I’m sure of it,” he nods quickly, standing so abruptly he nearly topples the tray of krill in front of him.

“Let’s go then,” Cara bolts up too, steadying the tray then shepherding them all out.

As they exit the shed, they see the rest of the village filing into the hall and the wafting smells signify the midday meal. Winta catches sight of the trio and bounds over to them.

“Whatcha doing?” she singsongs and falls into step beside him.

“Going to my ship,” he tells her before he realises that is probably not a good idea.

“Can I come?!” she asks, a chorus of pleases tacked on the end and he sighs. He should have known better.

He doesn’t really see the harm. She’s a good kid and listens when told. Besides, a growing part of him likes seeing her so happy, a child’s joy infectious even to his hardened soul. He suggests they bring lunch in for her mother and ask her permission, so soon the four of them are making their way to Omera’s hut with an assortment of plates and bowls filled to the brim with food.

“Knock, knock,” Cara calls as they pass the threshold, but Winta goes screaming through anyway as fast as her feet will carry her while maintaining balance of the bowls in her hands.

They step into Omera’s room just as she is rousing, face flushed, and hair mused from sleep. She takes them in with a kind smile and adjusts her position on the bed to give Winta and Cara room to sit with her. Din takes to leaning against the wall and Caben settles into a chair nestled in the corner.

“Can I go with them to his ship?” Winta immediately asks and all but shoves a bowl into Omera’s hands.

Omera takes it gently with a thank you, though she looks slightly confused even as she smiles at her daughter.

“We are going to use the navigator on my ship to look into a lead, so we will head there soon. I can take Winta with us if that’s alright with you, I’ll watch her and keep her safe,” he explains while everyone else is busy eating.

“Of course, as long as you don’t mind,” Omera smiles and lifts her brows at her daughter when she beams up at her. “And you’ll be good, won’t you? Listen to him.”

“Yup!” Winta agrees, scarfing the food down as if that will speed this all along.

They are all silent as they finish eating and Din takes the time to gather the sleeping kid into his arms, stepping out of the room and rocking him gently. He doesn’t wake, and Din isn’t surprised, but he watches the subtle movement of his closed eyes, tries to remember these moments for they may not have much longer together. He feels choked at the thought so quickly settles the kid back with Omera.

By now they have all finished with their meal and are stacking up the dishes. Cara looks between Din and Omera then slaps a hand on Winta’s shoulder, “Okay, kid. Let’s go check we’ve got everything we need for our adventure.”

Winta lights up again and is practically bouncing when she quickly kisses her mother’s cheek and is scrambling out of the hut. Caben and Cara follow behind to leave him with Omera for a moment.

“Rest and recuperate,” he instructs, adjusting her leg’s elevation and then perching on the bed edge. “I did it when you insisted, so now it’s your turn.”

“You barely did it,” she says, her laugh flitting through the air as she settles back down to rest and nudges him with her good leg. “And with a lot of protest.”

She is teasing, he gets that, but a large part of him needs her to rest and he feels an undeniable urge to protect her in every way possible, even from her own stubbornness.

“Please,” he utters, watching as the mirth fades from her face and she nods.

“Anything,” she says softly and the sincerity in her eyes makes him think that for as much as he is sure he’d do anything for her, she might be the same.

He clears his throat and nods. With a final farewell, he leaves the room and joins the others where they are waiting by the well.

They make good time to the ship, and when Caben’s amazement over the vessel has died down, they finally get to work. Winta is just happy to have been able to tag along, inspecting his ship as she had last time and then sitting quietly in the corner of the cockpit to watch them. He keeps checking on her, worried she might be getting bored, but she seems so entranced by the technology and is occupied by merely observing.

“That’s it!” Caben finally calls from where he has been sitting at the dashboard running through co-ordinates. “Pyreen is the planet. If you head to the main starport, you’re bound to find someone who can direct you.”

Din walks over and peers over his shoulder at what he has found. It was not somewhere he was familiar with, even with all the areas of the galaxy that his profession had taken him. He estimates a couple of days’ worth of travel to get there, and though he is hesitant to leave, the thought of making headways in this quest gives him confidence.

They remain at his ship for a while longer, plotting his course and making sure there was nothing amiss before journeying back into the village. Winta chatters happily along the way, mesmerised with all the different worlds they had sifted through before finding Pyreen and looking up at him in awe when he discusses his game plan for investigating this lead.

He knows he will miss Omera when he leaves, but he also knows Winta holds a very special part of his heart too, as does the rest of this peaceful village.

* * *

Din stays for a few more days, and Omera wonders how much of that is to make sure nothing comes of the men after Darq, and simply just being reluctant to leave. She hopes a significant part is the latter. But nonetheless, the day comes when Din needs to investigate the lead they had found and informs them of his plans at breakfast.

“I’ll leave shortly,” he says, arms folded on the table in front of him as he watches the child at his side eat. It brings a smile to her face to see that he has yet to succeed in his table-manners lessons.

“You’re coming back though, right?” Winta asks around a mouthful of porridge, anxiety clear in her voice and Omera doesn’t have the heart to scold her for _her_ table-manners when she sounds so concerned. “How long will you be?”

She is thankful that Winta asks the questions that she can’t. When she’d offered Sorgan as his home base, she had told herself the unspoken part of the deal would be that she’d never put pressure on Din, only ever offer help.

So even as she feigns only mild interest in his response, her heart thumps unsteadily.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he tells Winta softly, his words answering both her concerns. “I’m leaving the kid here with you. So, I’ve got no shortage of reasons to return.”

The subtle movement of his helmet makes her think that maybe he directed that last part slightly to her. Omera gives him a shy smile and looks down into her bowl, sure he is watching her even as he is angled towards her daughter.

“Please hurry,” Winta utters, face red and turned away from Din, though it is clear she is happy that his boy will remain behind.

“Then I better head off now,” Din nods, turning to speak lowly to his son and then standing.

“I’ll walk you to your ship,” she offers, trying to send him a subtle pleading look. He is a gentleman to the core, and she knows he will decline her offer. But she needs to see him off, for her peace of mind and maybe even to remind him of what will be waiting for him here when he returns.

They hadn’t had much alone time since the night they had kissed. There had been lots to catch up with around the village after all the chaos that had ensued in the days following their return from town. She sought him out often, using every excuse to lay a hand on his arm, nudge her head up against his helmet, all the while trying to keep the signs of her affection hidden from the other villager’s eyes. And her stomach flutters to think that it had been reciprocated, though they were both still a bit hesitant.

All those moments had made her lightheaded and jumpy with excitement, the intimacy of his helmet pressed against her making her breath catch, but she also yearns to kiss him again.

“I’ll come too!” Winta chimes in, disrupting Omera’s musings. Her eyes widen and she looks to Cara.

She can barely think of an excuse for Winta to not tag along before Cara is interjecting, “The goodbyes should be said here. The kid will be so upset when his Dad leaves, so you should stay here to comfort him. It’ll be easier that way.”

Din is entirely focused on cleaning up the mess of food on the child’s face and Winta looks conflicted, but she can also see the pride that dances in her daughter’s eyes when she gives an affirmative nod.

“Well, it’s settled then,” Cara retorts, sending her a wink when she mouths a thank you. “Din should make a move while the day is still young.”

She wonders if ‘make a move’ may have a double meaning.

She can’t dwell on it for too long as Din dips down to touch his helmet to his son’s head, and the little one pats the cheek of his helmet gently as he leans in too. He steps back and hesitates behind Winta but then gives her shoulder a quick squeeze. Winta clearly has other ideas though as she spins around and wraps her arms around his middle.

“Don’t get hurt,” she instructs him fiercely and he barely has time to react before she is releasing him and returning to her breakfast as if nothing had happened.

“Hmm,” he confirms and is then inclining his head to the entrance.

She tells Cara and Winta that she won’t be long and heads out of the hall after him. The village is just starting to begin the day’s work as they make their way past the well and onto the main road out of the area. Everyone they pass wishes Din well on his mission, but not without reassurances that they will eagerly await his return. He murmurs back his thanks, will tip his helmet in acknowledgement, but aside from that, she doesn’t know how he feels about it all.

When the village fades from sight he leads the way as they cut off the main road and walk through the woods.

“Wait,” he suddenly says, stopping in his tracks and turning to her. “Maybe you should stay here, how will you find your way back? My ship is in a clearing not near any tracks.”

She smiles at his concern, but she knows these woods like the back of her hand and points to the still-rising sun casting filtered light through the canopy, “I’ll know my path from the sun. I’ll be fine.”

He watches her for a moment, and she can tell he is considering her words, so she gives a gentle shrug, steps towards him and slides her hand up his vambrace to hold his arm between the armour. He immediately closes in too, his other hand flitting nervously near her waist before settling there.

“I don’t doubt your skills,” he laughs lightly but still sounds unsure. “But I’d feel better if we marked the path somehow.”

She would be happy to remain in his arms and debate the matter, but she knows he is too kind to draw away even as he needs to get going, so she does it for him with a final squeeze to his arms.

“What do you suggest?” she asks, though knows she will commit their path to memory, as she does every instance that involves him. She feels a grin stretch her lips wide as an idea strikes her and she wanders away from his position, fingers laced behind her back and sending him a coy smile over her shoulder. “Should we carve hearts into the trees? Put our initials inside?”

“You said it, not me,” he counters, following her, and the smile is evident in his voice even as the helmet hides it.

“As nice of an idea as that is, I’m afraid it might be a bit obvious,” she laughs, stroking her hand over the bark of a nearby tree in thought. She closes her eyes and imagines she can feel the deep grooves of their carvings, smiling quickly before turning back to him and leaning against the trunk. “I wouldn’t want someone to find you. Of course, it would be highly unlikely, but why tempt fate?”

She feels the smile slip from her face as the words are spoken and stands straighter as he approaches, hands still tucked behind her against the rough bark. He lifts an arm, his fingers twitching as if in nerves before he places his hand against the tree beside her head but does not bring his body any closer.

“I’ve been tempting fate ever since I landed here,” he whispers, barely picked up through the helmet’s modulator.

Her chest feels constricted so tightly that she finds breath escaping her. His words sound so haunted, so tortured, and she feels guilty and elated at the same time. She can’t think of what to say, her mind running with a million and one responses but her mouth unable to work beyond swallowing thickly, fingers cramping behind her. She doesn’t dare move an inch.

“But every moment is worth it,” he confirms, easing toward her as if subconsciously but then abruptly pulling back.

He draws a knife, the metal gleaming and almost trembling, much more than what she would assume was his own tremor. Then he is pressing it into the bark beside her, carving out a crude collection of lines that only etch the bark without harming the tree. When he steps back to evaluate his work she does too and sees it is subtle. Obvious if you know what you’re looking for but almost seeming to blend into the normal pattern of the bark.

She nods her approval and they move on. They make small talk as they make their way through the undergrowth and he tells her the gist of what he had gathered from Caben. And despite constant reassurances that her ankle is fine, he intermittently glances down to observe her footwork, grabbing her elbow when twisted tree roots line the ground. When they step over fallen trees and logs, he always goes first and offers a helping hand to which their fingers end up lingering twinned together longer than needed. He stops to mark more trees along the way at varying intervals and she realises that the blade _is_ quivering, on its own as his hand remains steady.

Eventually, he says the ship is not far, though Omera feels as though they have barely walked at all, and this time when he takes her hand to assist her over a small stream, he doesn’t release her fingers again. She squeezes his hand gently and smiles when he shifts his helmeted gaze to her.

The trees soon thin into a small clearing where his ship sits, and he drops her hand to make a final marking on a large tree to lead the path back to the village. It is now that she notices the carvings are not so crude after all and are in fact deliberate, each slightly different.

She cocks her head in thought, trying to determine if she has ever seen the symbols before and he looks over to her, tucking the blade away.

“They are characters of Mando’a,” he explains but doesn’t elaborate further. She moves to run her fingers along the design, already planning to do so with the other markings on her way back to the village.

“Does it spell something?” she asks, and when he merely nods, she laughs. “Are you going to tell me?”

“ _Yaim_ ,” he rumbles softly after a moment’s hesitation then clears his throat. “It is… it means ‘home’.”

She loves hearing him speak his language, but to be trusted with the truth behind his words has never ceased to amaze her, the notion making her chest tight. So she reaches a hand out to press against the centre of his chest plate over the indent and looks up into the visor with a soft smile.

“ _Yaim_ ,” she repeats, trying her best to not mess up the pronunciation and is rewarded with his helmet resting against her forehead tenderly. 

“Hmm,” he confirms lowly, holding her hand in its position.

She nudges her head back into his softly and breathes a sigh through her teeth, “I want to kiss you.”

It just slips out and she instantly cringes at herself, feeling her brow screw up against the cool metal of his helmet. She is about to pull back and apologise, tries to think of any way to make up for such a selfish request, but then he is pulling back and she feels his scrutinising gaze piercing through the visor. He swivels his head around as if taking in their surroundings and then locks back on her.

“Go ahead,” he encourages slowly, almost as if he isn’t sure himself and she realises he must have found something in her expression that he trusted.

She smiles so brightly her cheeks begin to hurt with the strain and she sets her shaking hands on the sides of his helmet. She pauses there for a moment to give him time to reconsider, but he remains firm in his decision, so she closes her eyes and eases the helmet up.

She feels terribly exposed like this and knows there is no avoiding how clumsy this kiss will be, not her finest moment, but she can’t find it in herself to care. When she figures she has lifted the helmet enough to at least have access to his mouth, she leans forward slowly. She feels the tip of his nose against hers first, and reassured with the positioning, she tilts her head ever so slightly and meets his lips with her own in a soft caress.

That is all she means for it to be, anything more would be too risky in broad daylight, not to mention her hands were still occupied holding his helmet up, but he clearly has other ideas. When she eases back onto her heels he follows, the helmet clearly still on his head enough for his movements to pull her hands along. His arms wrap around her waist and his lips search out hers again.

She screws her eyes shut as she laughs lightly, twisting her head to the side and causing his lips to reach the corner of her mouth, drag along her cheek. The soft scratch of his stubble sends shivers down her spine to every nerve ending in her body and she visibly trembles.

“I’m afraid I’ll open my eyes by mistake,” she explains while still laughing and eases his helmet back down, the last thing she wants is for him to think she doesn’t appreciate his actions.

Once she is sure it is back in place, she tests it by moving her hands back and only cracks one eye open after a moment of silence. The helmet is well and truly in position and Din lets out a soft sigh as he leans it against her forehead again.

“When I return then?” he asks as she watches his movements, blush creeping up her neck and giving an eager nod.

“It’s a date,” she smiles, but then her words catch up with her. “Wait! Sorry, that slipped out. I don’t presume–“

“It’s a date,” he cuts off her concern, laughing softly, and she laughs too, smoothing her hands over the collar of his cloak.

But it has reminded her of the inevitable, that he must now leave and she is suddenly saddened. She has tried so hard to keep her memories and present separate, but she can’t help but think of the last time she saw her husband, how she’d wished him a safe trip only for him to never return.

“Please…” she trails off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.

“Anything,” he croaks back as she had the other day. He tugs her close, and she gets the inkling he knows what is going through her mind.

“Come back,” she finally manages, though it is more laboured than she would have liked. She had told herself she wouldn’t ask this of him, not pressure him, but the words spill without her consent. “We need you.”

She hears as he takes a deep breath, pulls back to hold her shoulders and she imagines him staring deeply into her eyes, “I tried to do the right thing and leave for good last time, but all it brought me was bad luck. I need this place much more than you need me.”

“We will have to agree to disagree,” she smiles as her eyes prickle with wetness, but she won’t let the tears fall in front of him. “Maybe it was fated you came here after all.”

She gives him a final soft nudge with her head then presses her lips to the metal above his visor before backing away. She doesn’t want to keep him anymore, for the sooner he leaves, the sooner he will return.

She gives a sad smile and jerks her head to his ship to urge him on. He takes a step back and gives a curt nod too.

“I’ve written down the channel for the com on my ship, it’s under the lantern in your room. If there’s trouble I’ll be back here as quick as hyperspace will allow,” he murmurs, and his voice seems thick with emotion.

“Thank you,” she whispers back, then watches as he turns to board his ship, and soon it is lifting off and leaving Sorgan’s atmosphere.

He has taken her fractured heart with him again, and it gives her comfort to think that if it is anything like the last time, when he returns it will be that much more whole.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din has gone to do some investigating and the pining is most definitely mutual!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cara is her normal smirky/suggestive self! Not too vulgar though :)

Din’s ship bumps with turbulence as it leaves Sorgan’s atmosphere and he makes sure to not look back as he begins to plot the course to Pyreen. He misses the quiet and unassuming planet almost the minute he lifts off its soil, and even more so its inhabitants. The machine hum of his ship is quiet yet cuts through his thoughts as if it were deafening. Completely in contrast to the chirping birds and soft bubbling of the ponds on Sorgan that encouraged deep thought.

But maybe that was a good thing, such thoughts would do him no good on this mission. He wanted to focus enough to get the job done, but not so much that he thought of all that he had left behind and what he plans to give up eventually.

He shakes his head with a sigh and makes the jump to hyperspace. The pinpricks of stars become a blinding sheet of white and then the colours of the galaxy swirl around his ship. The reading on the monitor suggests the trip will take just over two standard days, so he swivels in his chair and makes to stand.

A pang of sadness strikes his chest as he takes in the seat to his left where the kid would normally be settled, perfectly content to watch him pilot the ship. So long as he gave him something to play with, otherwise he would be right in his lap and trying to mouth all the controls. The pang worsens at the thought, for as much as Din would grumble, he liked having the little one sitting with him at the dash.

His eyes catch on the bracket on the wall and he realises the charm no longer hangs there but is tied around the wicker crib in the barn on Sorgan. Omera had also hung one from the rafters, so no wonder he slept so well. In hindsight, he should have left his original one here. He huffs humourlessly and stands; it would be just his luck if he is plagued by nightmares for the duration of his time away.

He checks the readings one more time to make sure he is on track before exiting down into the hull, his ship was in desperate need of maintenance and he figured now was as good a time as any. Scanning the bay, he is instantly relieved that Omera hadn’t stepped foot on his ship since his return.

It was in a real state.

Evidence of the blurrgs he had transported to Nevarro was in the muddy tracks lining the grate floor. Sheet panels haphazardly loose where quick fixes had been done when he had been able to spare a moment but no longer. Crates in disarray where they were normally stacked neatly.

He spends his time getting his ship back into presentable order. He is not obsessive-compulsive but does have a system to his living space and feels at ease once it begins resembling the ship he had travelled in before everything went to hell.

He cleans, repairs, remembers to eat some rations in-between. He relishes in being able to shower again, but this time had remembered to steal a block of soap to use instead of the dispenser soap. The smell reminds him of Sorgan as a whole, but more specifically the wafting fragrance from Omera’s hair when he had buried his face in it the first night they’d kissed. His tongue feels thick in his mouth and his throat parched at the thought. He straight away turns the water to stone cold and grits his teeth against the chill as he finishes washing, goose-bumps erupting across his skin because of more than just the water. He shuts off the water, teeth chattering even as his face heats. He dries and dresses quickly.

No, these thoughts were not helpful. It was going to be a long week.

That night he dreams of Omera, though unlike all the other times he has, and it had been countless, it is full of darkness and despair. It is a broken, fitful slumber that he is pleased to be saved from when his body feels replenished enough to just function adequately.

The days of travel pass quickly and eventually he is dropping out of hyperspace and approaching the rust coloured planet of Pyreen. He is cautious of his surroundings, eyes scanning the atmosphere and alert for any cause for concern. Soon the starport is hailing his coms and guiding him to a landing bay as he settles into the pilot chair and tweaks the controls. He acknowledges and begins his descent, absently checking the reader to see if any other communications had come through. Nothing. He supposes that was a good thing, meaning there was no trouble on Sorgan and that the kid was safe, his _aliit_ was safe. All of them, he thinks, without putting faces to the two silhouettes that stand beside himself and the kid in his mind’s eye.

Safety aside, he just wanted to _talk_ to someone, he was… _lonely_. A notion that had never concerned him before now. What a mess he had truly made.

By the time he has touched down into the designated bay, night is upon Pyreen and he thinks he couldn’t have timed it better. Despite his hatred of droids, landing afterhours meant he could pay his fee with the service droids and avoid contact with whatever other lifeforms were on this planet, until he deemed appropriate.

Once the payment is settled, he sets his ship security systems and reclines in his chair, thinking of the best course of action come morning. There appeared to be a Cantina just beyond the yard where he should probably start, and he is running his plans through his head as his eyes constantly drift to the com on the dashboard.

He wants to contact her, would be two seconds away from doing so if he knew the channel. The ball was in her court, it had been an oversight to not load her channel before he departed. Now he had no way of contacting her unless she did so first. Maybe it was a blessing, taken out of his control and therefore useless to waste time contemplating.

When he finally admits to himself that he has no hope of distracting himself away from thoughts of her, he decides he’d better get some sleep at least. He groans softly, muscles stiff as he hauls himself from the chair. He sends a quick line to his last known channel for the Covert, a habit now even as he is only ever answered with radio silence, and retreats down to the comfort of his cot in the hull.

The next morning, he rises early, pushing the lingering gloom from his nightmares to the back of his mind and preparing to head out. He checks the com again, just in case, and tells himself to not be disappointed when the steady red bulb indicates no transmissions.

He clears his throat to prevent his sigh, then secures his ship and makes his way out into the red clay landscape of Pyreen.

* * *

When Din had asked Omera if she’d look after his boy while he investigated off-world, she had been thrilled at the trust, but also worried. She’d previously offered to look after his son for a night so that he might be able to rest without his armour, and that had only ended with her having to give him back because the poor thing was unable to settle without his father. This time, consoling the child wouldn’t just be a short walk across the village.

That being said, he was understandably saddened the moment Din had left, but since that time he had been his normal happy self. Though she could tell he still missed his father by the way he would look up into the sky throughout the day, stare longingly at the barn or main road into the village, as if Din would just materialise any moment.

She’d moved his crib into her hut the first day, stepping into the barn to retrieve it quietly and looking around at the evidence of Din that remained. A few crates and boxes were stacked neatly in the corner, a small wicker basket sitting on the bench with a variety of different coloured stones and pebbles of all sizes. She didn’t want to intrude on his space while he was away, but she found her fingers trailing along the back of the chair they had sat in that night, the very slightly rumpled sheets of his bed that he’d hastily made before leaving.

She can’t help but picture him lounging there, devoid of his armour aside from his helmet. She hadn’t been in his arms without the armour since that first time when Cara had interrupted, and she longed to pull him close without the barrier once more. Perhaps even in the dead of night, the lantern could be turned down so that the helmet may be removed too. Maybe then he’d lower her onto the bed more like she’d imagined rather than to rest a miraculously healed ankle.

She’d abruptly picked up the crib and left. Thoughts such as those would do her no good while he was away and she was yearning.

She’d spent the remainder of that day settling the child, making sure he was as comfortable as being without Din allowed. He mostly occupied himself, so she was able to do some light farming duties, and the rest of the village was just glad to have the happy little one around, as he brought laughter and joy to all those he touched.

He’d taken a bit to put down at night, fussing and warbling, standing at his cot with little claws curled around the railing and big eyes glimmering. She knew the trick well from when Winta was a baby, but wasn’t sure what kind of routine Din had established, if any. She didn’t want to undo any progress he had made, so she remained firm in her resolve, letting the child self soothe until he eventually fell asleep. Even so, it took barely any time at all and she felt the maternal stirrings once more to have one so dependent on her.

It had been some time since Winta needed her so. She loved watching her daughter grow even as it was too quick, but the village hadn’t had a baby in so long. Omera turned to Winta with a smile once small snores sounded throughout the room, and Winta crept quietly to her side to watch him sleep too.

...

The next morning it is decided that the children’s lesson of the day would be that of swimming, which received an uproar of cheers. With the Klatooinians raids it had been too dangerous to venture into the woods to the lake, so swimming lessons had suffered and some on the younger ones had yet to become confident. They had steadily returned to old routine since Din and Cara had helped them with the raiders, so anytime they could spare the manpower in the village, teaching the children to swim was a priority, a necessity in a farming village with so many ponds.

By late morning the village was settled into work for the day and allowed for the children to be taken to the lake, an easy half-hour walk away. A small group of adults that could be spared accompany Omera, and Cara tags along too. Winta chatters away happily at the head of the group with the other children and Din’s boy lazes happily in Omera’s arms. He is sluggish and sated after his morning meal and due for a nap, she’d say. She planned to tuck him in for a sleep once they got to the lake so she could help keep an eye on the other kids swimming, and hopefully manage to sneak a little lesson in for him too once he woke.

“Missing him already?” Cara teases from her side, though a part of her suspects the other woman might be missing him too. Din never demanded attention, and often went out of his way to do exactly the opposite, but nonetheless, his absence was felt by everyone.

Omera laughs lightly in response and gives a nonchalant shrug, completely in contradiction to how she really feels. And Cara sees right through it.

“Yes,” Omera relents with a sigh, but she can see the humour in it so sends Cara a soft smile. “He gave me the channel to the com on his ship if I need it.”

“What constitutes ‘ _needing’_ it?” she asks, and the glint in her eye can only mean trouble. “Like if you break your leg again, and need carrying to _bed_? Help to _undress_?”

She blushes instantly and bumps her shoulder against Cara’s in warning even as she grins. She is about to defend those mentioned situations, but Cara is cutting her off, as she has a habit of doing.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did that not happen?” she asks sarcastically. “I could have sworn I saw the longing a mile away. It must be a bummer now that he is so far away. Maybe using the com when you ‘need’, is late at night when you’re feeling lonely–”

“Cara!” she stage-whispers, completely appalled but unable to stop her laugh. She gestures with her chin to the children they are trailing. None of them pay the two woman any mind, but she still doesn’t feel comfortable discussing such things around children. At all, really, though she doubts she has any choice with Cara around.

Cara holds her hands up in mock surrender, she knows she wants to say more but will at least hold off until they are out of the prying ears of others.

Soon the lake comes into view and the adults all but have to restrain the children from rushing headfirst into the water’s depths. The commotion rouses the little one in her arms and he trills happily, ears flapping as he whips his head around to see what everyone is making a fuss about. Omera hoists him onto her hip to better take in the sight and she can see the moment his eyes catch the glistening water turned to thousands of crystals in the sunlight. His mouth opens comically wide and arms flail as he is unable to contain his excitement.

“Do you want to swim too?” she laughs lightly, jostling him and making him squeal in joy. He looks up at her with such a look of love that she finds herself floored.

Din’s boy could not speak to them with words, but there was knowledge and wisdom behind his big eyes that could not be denied. Despite that, in so many ways he was also just a young child and she felt the fierceness to protect him like she did any child. It was the strangest parallel but only endeared him to her more.

By now the rest of the children have been given the go-ahead to get in the water, and the other adults wade out to make a safe perimeter for them. Cara watches from the shore and Omera takes Din’s boy to a small puddle near the shallows. She sets him down at the edge and rolls his sleeves up. She wonders if he would mind getting in the water without his robes but figures he might just paddle for now anyway. He waddles as close as he can along the coarse sand without touching the water, then looks longingly out to the other kids splashing around in the deeper pools. She can see they also want to play with the little one, but are given instructions to start their lessons so turn back to the other adults.

“We’ll just hang out here for a little bit,” she tells him, and he turns to look at her. She gives a warm smile and pats his head. “… _ad’ika_? Is that how I say it?”

She knows the pronunciation isn’t quite there, but the way his little face lights up and he reaches to grip her retreating fingers makes her think it must be close. She leans forward on her knees and brings her lips to place a quick kiss to the pudgy hand she holds before gently guiding it down to touch the still surface of the puddle.

His excitement over the kiss to his hand is quickly transferred to the ripples flowing from the small contact to the water. He watches them fascinated for a quiet moment, completely still, then all of a sudden he is slapping both hands to the water, splashing water everywhere and shrieking with laughter. She laughs too and he is content to splash around for longer than she’d think until water is running from his face in thick streams and he is well and truly soaked. He gets more confident, scurrying to where the puddle deepens into a shallow pool. She keeps a watchful eye and steadying hand, allows him to continue to explore and wishes Din was here to see it.

She isn’t sure how long they spend there, is confident she could do this all day as his amazement is infectious. He is probably too young to learn how to swim, but she holds him securely and lets him kick and wade in the deeper water, floats him on his back as they did for all the village children from a young age.

It wears him out before the older kids are finished with their lessons so she removes his sodden robes and wraps him in a dry blanket. She walks over to sit at Cara’s side, settles him against her chest as she reclines against a tree trunk and he is asleep in no time.

“Tuckered out, is he?” Cara observes from her lounging position, cracking an eye open to look at her.

“Hmm,” she hums back quietly, not wanting to wake him, and strokes one of his ears soothingly. “I miss having a baby to care for, this is nice.”

“Din can probably help you with that,” Cara says without missing a beat and Omera looks to her confused. He already had? By trusting her with his boy?

Clearly Cara had been expecting a different reaction because she props herself up on an elbow to look at her. She gives her a pointed look and does a knowing brow raise. Then Omera realises what she means and instantly feels herself flush a deep red, but doesn’t know what to say.

Her reaction only eggs Cara on more and now the other woman hauls herself up into a sitting position, dark eyes capturing Omera’s and taking them prisoner.

“You’ve thought about it!” she concludes, face alight with scandal.

Omera has never been good at lying but she supposes her silence is confirmation enough. In all honesty, Din was the most unlikely father she had probably ever met, but the connection and care with his son was undeniable. She tasked anyone with seeing the two together and not getting maternal.

“Don’t blow a gasket, your secret is safe with me,” Cara guffaws, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m willing to bet he’s the same under all that metal, even if he doesn’t realise it himself.”

Again, she remains silent, though when she tucks Din’s boy up higher on her chest, she feels her lips twitch into a traitorous smile.

...

As the days wear on, she gets more and more anxious when there is no sign of his return, or even any word. She battles with herself on a near-constant basis whether she should use the com-link or not, but never does, worried it would be at a bad time or annoy him. Life on the farm continues as it always does, but she knows everyone else is worried for him too. He has become an integral part of their life, as had his son that has everyone fawning over him.

It has been just over a week and Omera enjoys a rare morning off as she sits with Winta and Din’s boy amongst the wildflowers at the gravesite. The blooms have really taken off and their strong stalks sway gently in the light breeze as Winta recalls all her favourite memories that concerned their missing guest.

“Oh, remember when he was flying?!” she says excitedly, jumping to her feet and careening around in what Omera assumes is her rendition of the manoeuvres he’d made that day. She smiles widely at her daughter, undeniably pleased that Din had made such an impression on her, and watches as his boy tries to mimic her erratic movements.

“He looked so cool,” Winta finishes, throwing herself down on the ground and helping the boy scramble into her lap. “I hope he will take me for a ride one day,” Winta says offhand like she is trying to gauge her mother’s reaction

“He still owes me one too,” Omera replies just as nonchalant, watching Winta from the corner of her eye to see when she picks up on her meaning. The recognition slowly dawns on her face and then she is beaming and bobbing where she sits.

“So, you’ll let him?! Mama, it is going to be so much fun!”

“We have to wait for him to be ready, though, remember he has only just started,” she adds, knowing that Winta can be like a dog with an old bone and not wanting her to pressure Din.

Winta gives a firm nod and is then continuing with her catalogue of Din-related tales. Omera thinks how nice it is to sit with the both of them and just enjoy the morning together. Although a village life is peaceful, it is often hard work with little time to relax like this. They pick handfuls of flower stems and work at weaving them into thick crowns as they continue to chatter away. With Winta and the child’s heads adorned with flowers of all hues, the two of them thread the flowers through her own hair, tucking them through the braids.

Din’s boy seems fascinated by the lengths of her hair, stroking the thick locks with incredibly gentle hands she thought impossible for one so young. Winta stands behind her working on some elaborate braid to provide more anchors for flowers, and the little one abandons stroking her hair to pass flowers to help. Winta suddenly goes silent in her work and when Omera is about to question her daughter, she speaks so softly Omera barely hears her.

“I called him Dad by accident.”

Omera’s breath catches at the confession and she waits a moment before turning to look at her daughter. She cannot comprehend how Din must have reacted to something like that. She knows being a father to his boy was new for him, something he had only just gotten his head around, and for another child to call him such… well, she didn’t know. She knows he wouldn’t have been cruel to her, but she also knows not having a father had been hard for Winta, especially watching how involved the other men of the village were with their children.

She feels like a gaping krill as she watches her daughter, not knowing what to say, but Winta looks unbothered, quickly secures the end of a braid and settles into her lap.

“I think he likes you, Mama,” she says, pulling the boy into her lap so they are all sitting together. The child coos happily and snuggles down.

“And how do you feel about that?” Omera asks carefully. She had never broached this subject with Winta before, had never even entertained the idea of finding another since her husband passed.

“Well, I _really_ like him. I don’t want him to ever leave again,” Winta explains, but she can tell there is more as her daughter looks hesitant. “But… what about my real Dad? Would he be… mad?”

And Omera feels her heart breaking all over again. She worries how long Winta has carried this around with her, guilty for her feelings.

“No, love, never,” Omera reassures, stroking her cheek and straightening a wayward daisy that had escaped the crown. “All your father would have ever wanted was for you to be safe and happy.”

Winta gives her a watery smile and looks about to say something when all of a sudden the little one jumps to his feet with an excited chirp up at the sky. They follow his gaze and see nothing, just have time to share a confused look, then there is a soft whirring overhead and a ship appears, darting across the sky.

Din’s ship.

Winta grins at her and then is pulling Omera to her feet to try drag her to where the ship had been headed. Omera can’t help the laugh that bubbles through her, completely overjoyed at his return. Winta hurriedly gathers the child in her arms and they walk briskly to meet him.

* * *

Every night of his stint from Sorgan, Din has been haunted by nightmares. So, by the time he is approaching the comfort of its serenity in the blankness of space, he is bleary-eyed and wary. It had started with Omera, he had been so distraught when she’d broken her ankle, but clearly his mind could conjure up worse fates. When she would appear in the foggy pictures of his mind, a sadistic part of him was pleased to at least be able to dream of her in his absence, but that was short-lived as the horrors took his dreams and ran riot. Some nights it was less dramatic, and there was just some new contender to sweep her off her feet and away from him. Those he could handle, a part of him knowing that would be the best thing for her. But it hadn’t stopped him from wishing she had missed him as acutely as he had her, and he knows he will never leave her side unless she orders him away.

The logistics of that give him a headache, she doesn’t know the half of it. She is his _aliit_ , short of him verbally citing the bond, so it wasn’t as simple as just walking away. But when he’d departed Sorgan little over a week ago, she’d seemed more than content to keep him around at least for a little while longer, so he supposes he’ll just cross that bridge when he comes to it.

He dreamt of the kid more towards the end of his trip, of finding his people and having to let him go. The kid was young, he would move on and forget, but Din was not so lucky, and the dreams broke a part of him that only Sorgan could repair. But the truly damaging part of these nightmares was the notion that he had nothing to offer Sorgan without the kid, they loved _ad’ika,_ but just tolerated his useless father.

He needed to get home. And prove his subconscious wrong.

He flies over the krill farm to the clearing where he’d previously landed the Razor Crest, unable to make out the farmers in the ponds but knowing they would be hard at work.

The ship shudders as it touches down and he flips the engines off, suddenly uncharacteristically jumpy and unable to sit still. He’s already packed a crate of things to bring into the village; spare suits, a heavy pouch of credits, and the circuitry and wiring he’d need. He quickly retrieves it from the kid’s seat and heads down into the hull.

News that the Moff was still around had blindsided him, he’d thought for sure that the wreck of the TIE fighter had been too damaged for a man to survive. At least with his troops depleted, he’d caused no problem for Karga, and the Guild remained in full swing on Nevarro, though where the Moff lays in wait remains a mystery. For now.

Despite all that, he finds himself hopeful for the future. While there was not much progress on finding the kid’s people, and clearly there would still be Imps after him, he now had an idea of how to protect the little one.

Those thoughts all come to an abrupt standstill when he opens the ramp to his ship.

The first thing that hits him is the absence of the machine hum, now replaced with the quiet happenings of Sorgan. He itches to remove his helmet and be able to take it all in with his bare ears. And eyes, he thinks as the ramp lowers and he casts his gaze outward.

The late morning sunlight streams through the surrounding trees, illuminating the drifting particles in the air until they shine like stars in the night sky. And amongst it all stands his _aliit_ waiting for him.

The kid is waving frantically from within Winta’s arms, both their grins as beaming as the other’s, and a clustered chain of wildflower blooms and greenery around their heads. Omera stands at her daughter’s side, a comforting hand resting across her shoulder and the same blossoms woven through her long hair. Din’s fingers twitch against the crate he holds, distinctly remembering visions he’d entertained of threading such flowers through the lengths himself.

She sends him a sweet smile, cheeks flushed and the sunlight picking up the wayward strands of her hair in the light breeze.

“ _Yaim_?” she asks softly across the distance between them, her voice light as it mingles with the sounds of nature. Her pronunciation is a little off, and he suspects she knows it from the apologetic slant to her brows, but he is impressed, nonetheless.

“ _Yaim_ ,” he confirms, his low voice not nearly harmonising as well with the tranquillity of Sorgan, but her blissful smile makes up for it as she walks towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened while Din was away? What did he find? He has things to be equally happy AND concerned about...


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is happy at Din's return, he takes a much-needed rest and discusses his game plans. Things are looking up!

As soon as Omera has taken a step towards him, it is as if that is all the confirmation Winta needs and then she is bounding over to him with the kid in her arms. Din doesn’t know quite what he expects, but judging by the fierce giggling and reaching hands of the little one, he probably means to launch himself at Din. He lowers the crate to the ground so that his hands are free for whatever chaos is about to ensue, and just has time to straighten himself before they are colliding with him.

The kid immediately scrambles up his form, little claws getting purchase on his weapon belt and beskar, and Winta throws her arms around his middle.

He huffs as the wind is knocked from him and takes a step to correct his balance from the onslaught, a hand going to the top of Winta’s head in a pat and using his other as a safety net for where the kid is climbing him.

“Hey,” he murmurs in greeting down to where Winta is looking up at him with a proud grin and her chin jutting into his suit just below the chest plate. Then he turns his head to look at where the kid has found a spot on his pauldron, “You too, kid.”

The little one chirps in response and bops its little head against his visor, and Din swears he will never get used to it.

“Hi,” Winta chimes, face red and moving to his side as Omera approaches too, though she is still right up against him.

“Welcome home,” Omera says softly with a warm smile, taking a final step to him and giving his arm a firm squeeze. He tips his head to acknowledge her and lifts the same arm to cup the back of her elbow too, desperate to have contact with her, no matter how little it may be. He feels a dire need to pull her in for a _kov’nyn_ , to lift his helmet so he can kiss her like he’d imagined a thousand times during his waking hours. Unfortunately, his dreams hadn’t allowed him that indulgence amongst their horrors.

He holds himself back though, he doesn’t want to confuse Winta. He was confused in all this, so he can only imagine how Winta must be feeling. But despite that, she just seems to watch on happily.

Omera moves back from him all too soon and is inclining her head towards the woods in the direction of the village. He collects the kid from his shoulder and places him on top of the crate so he can carry both with him.

“Have you been good, _ad’ika_?” he asks, though it comes out as more of a sigh and Omera shoots him a concerned look.

“You sound tired,” she observes.

He is silent for a few paces before he finally replies, “I didn’t sleep well while I was away.”

She gives a sympathetic smile and rubs a comforting hand over his back. He hasn’t been comforted like this in so long that it stumps him for a moment, though luckily Omera doesn’t ask him to elaborate.

“Your boy is probably due for a nap now too. When we get back maybe you two should have a lay down in the barn. Board yourself up and I’ll tell everyone to let you sleep. I know he has been missing you at night.”

He wants to object, offer to help around the village with whatever chores need doing, but he is nearly asleep on his feet and the idea tempts him almost as much as she does.

“That might be best, I doubt I’m any good to anyone at the moment.”

“That’s not true, but you should rest anyway. Everyone will still be here when you wake,” she tells him, and the notion makes his chest thud. He was home, where he belonged, something he hadn’t felt in so long.

“There was no trouble while I was gone?” He asks, biting his tongue to not tack onto the end how she hadn’t contacted him through the com.

She shakes her head with a smile, and they continue towards the village. She offers to take the kid so that he doesn’t have to carry both, but the little one weighs next to nothing. And if Din is honest, he likes having him close.

Throughout their walk, Omera and Winta update him of all he’d missed in the village, which wasn’t a whole lot, and he is surprised with how much he wished he hadn’t missed even a second. Winta is an energetic ball of enthusiasm, skipping around them and twirling around trees as she interjects little additions to Omera’s stories.

The kid sitting on the crate watches him as they walk, rambling excitedly with incomprehensible sounds when he clearly also likes the part of the story being told. So Din hums along, tilts his helmet and pretends he understands.

In his periphery, he sees Omera watching him and letting off a small chuckle behind her hand. His heart thuds at the way she is looking at him, how she gravitates to be as close to him as their walking gait will allow. He deserves none of it. But that doesn’t stop him from letting his shoulder bump into hers or incline his head when she speaks so she knows she has his entire attention.

When the village comes into view, it is as if a huge weight is lifted from his chest and he can breathe easy again. It looks just as he’d left it, farmers busy in the ponds, children running around near the well, and the sun beaming down on it all. There is a steady stream of billowing smoke from the hall and Din can just pick up the hint of an enticing smell. Lunch. Sorgan had made him dissatisfied with ration bars, what he had mostly lived off his entire life. He can feel his stomach churning with the thought of a real meal, but luckily it doesn’t grumble too loudly and alert his companions.

One of the kids is the first to see their approach, and his face lights up as he tugs the others with him on his mad dash to meet them. Din is musing to himself how the little one really was popular but then remembers that the kid had been in the village the whole time he was away. It dawns on him that maybe the kids aren’t running to greet just the kid, and then they are all skidding to a stop at Din’s feet.

“You’re back!” one calls excitedly, grinning toothily and looking up into Din’s visor.

“Did you beat anyone up?”

“Did you use your jetpack?”

“Did you miss us?”

“What’s in the box?”

It is a constant chorus of questions and he surprises himself to acknowledge that he had missed it. He’d missed everything about this place, even the persistent children. But before he can begin to respond to any of those questions, Winta comes to his aid.

“He’s really tired, so he is going to go sleep first,” she states firmly to the others and they all listen, hanging on her every word.

Din inclines his head to Omera at his side, and when she meets his eye, she gives a smile with a slight shake of her head at her daughter’s antics. But as always, the pride for her daughter shines above it all. He is struck again with how much Winta is the miniature copy of her mother, the whole exchange reminiscent of how the other villagers look up to Omera as well.

The children stop their questions and just walk alongside them down the path back into the centre of the village, all the while chattering about what villains he must have come across in his time away and what moves he’d used against them. It is clear that they perceive him as a sort of hero figure, and the thought makes him uneasy. He was far from a hero in any sense, but he wishes so badly to live up to their expectations.

And somehow their conversation evolves into a frantic game of tag, Winta darting between Omera and Din as they walk, circling around them and teasing the kid she’d just tagged. The next moment, they are off, careening through the village and only narrowly avoiding toppling baskets full of krill.

As chaotic as it all is, it is home.

The kid remains happily settled on the crate Din carries, leaning back against his chest plate. He entertains the idea that the kid missed him just as much, as normally he would be squirming to join in with the others.

And not only him. The other villagers stop in their work as he passes, some waving from afar and the ones closer walking up to greet him. He thinks maybe he had gotten it all wrong, and he could have a place here, even if he has to give the kid up. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and he pushes it to the back of his mind. There was no need to invite the nightmares when he was going to attempt sleep soon.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Cara calls then falls into step with them, thumping a broad hand on his shoulder in greeting. “Welcome back.”

“You’ve kept out of trouble, I see,” he replies with a tip of his helmet, but despite his curtness, he has missed her too.

“Mostly,” she counters with a quick wink.

By now they have reached the barn and Cara picks up the kid from the crate, “I’ll take this one and go pack his stuff from Omera’s hut while you get settled.”

Din doesn’t miss the pointed look Cara gives Omera, or the pretty flush that colours her cheeks in response. One of the kids goes screaming past their small group, chased by a wild-looking Winta, and Cara takes two quick steps to grab the back of Winta’s dress and haul her to a stop, “Not so fast.”

“Hey!” Winta protests but is laughing all the same and swatting back at Cara’s arm. When she finally releases her, the girl spins around with a wide grin and holds her small fists up in a fighting stance.

“Not this time, Squirt,” Cara laughs, and Din feels like he is missing something. “I can hear his stomach grumbling from here. Think you can scrounge up some grub?”

“I’m on it!” Winta salutes and is then scrambling over to the hall, game of tag with the other kids completely forgotten.

“I’ve been giving her lessons,” Cara shrugs when Din cocks his head at her. “She’s got a wicked left hook.”

He is surprised at that, and even more so that Omera seems completely content to have her daughter sparring with a former Rebel shock trooper.

“Mandalorians are trained from such an age too, are they not?” Omera smiles, and the notion is not lost on Din. He knows she is in part joking; she does not expect her daughter to be trained as a warrior, but he thinks she is trying to show him again how she respects his culture.

“Alright,” Cara drawls in mock awkwardness when his eyes remain locked on Omera, and she is laughing as she backs away. “I’ll grab his things and bring them over.”

He watches her retreat, an ache settling in his chest at watching the kid leave after only just seeing him after so long. Din can see his big eyes over Cara’s shoulder, he warbles but does not look too concerned, so he turns back to Omera. Clearly she had been watching the exchange and gives him a sympathetic smile before inclining her head to the barn.

Din steps through the threshold, the floorboards creaking, and the sound is like music to his ears after the clanking and dull echoes of his ship’s hull. He wastes no time setting the crate on the bench nearest the entrance and takes in the familiarity. There were small differences, the kid's crib missing and some of his toys, but otherwise, it looks just as he’d left it. And the cot calls to him.

He lets out a sigh and rests a hand on the crate he has just put down. He knows he should get to work straight away, he wasn’t quite as versed with the circuitry as he’d like and it might take some time, but he figures doing so on a wracked brain was not a good idea. He’d been careful on his way home, worked to leave an elaborate trail that would throw any followers off, though he was mostly confident there weren’t any. A few hours rest would be fine.

“I missed you,” Omera says quickly and it draws his attention to where she stands in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back and avoiding his gaze. Now rest is the last thing on his mind.

He is unable to stop himself from stepping towards her at the confession, but he does manage to bite back the groan that wants to erupt from his throat. Din is torn. He had missed her desperately too, wants to pull her in close, but he is so bone-tired that he fears he may fall asleep where he stands. He’d also missed the kid just as much, and the thought of napping with him was too tempting to pass up.

She steps towards him too and holds the helmet between her hands. After a breath-taking smile, she lets her eyes slide shut and leans up on her toes to touch her head to his in a gentle _kov’nyn_. He lets out a relieved sigh before he can stifle it and clutches at her waist for purchase. She exhales a soft breath and steps even closer to fuse her body to his.

“I missed you too,” he finally confesses with an uttered whisper. He allows himself to catch his breath before continuing, nudging his head into hers with each further confession. “I kept hoping I’d find a message waiting for me on the com.”

Omera laughs lightly, shaking her head softly against his and lowering her hands to settle on his chest plate, “I wanted to so many times, but I didn’t want to disrupt you.”

She presses closer, the force of it causing him a half step backwards and then he feels the wall of the barn at his back. He pulls her tighter against him and her twitching smile and flushed cheeks make him think that had been her plan all along.

“I don’t need to sleep yet,” he blurts quickly, suddenly wide awake and fingers fidgeting against her, twisting into the fabric of her dress where his hands are splayed. He wishes he’d removed the beskar, at least his gloves, so that she could get closer. “Stay,” he all but whimpers and grits his teeth against how pathetic he feels.

She reaches once more for his helmet and he urges himself to stay calm, to let her remove it. He psychs himself up for it and hopes his full-body tremor is not as noticeable as it feels. Winta and the kid should be due back any moment. Cara is likely to barge in unannounced as per usual. Any one of the farmers could waltz right in. There are so many reasons to not let it happen, but he can’t find it in himself to fight this anymore. He’d gone so long thinking he’d never need anyone, never _want_ anyone, but everything changed the moment she’d first invited him into the barn.

But she never lifts the helmet. Instead, she pulls back from resting her forehead against his visor and looks straight through it as if it weren’t there to start with.

“You need to rest, Din,” she reasons, a deep frown in her brow but the light in her eyes reassures him that she is just as reluctant to part as he is. A thumb brushes the curved hollow of his helmet above his cheek and he feels the echo of it even through the thick beskar. “It’ll keep. I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers.

He watches for a moment, then satisfied with the severity in her eyes, he nods. She smiles warmly then tips forward to press her lips to the part of his helmet she’d just stroked.

“And you can tell me all about your trip when you’re up,” she says, voice now returned to normal as she steps back from him. Her demeanour changes within a second and he finds himself reeling with the difference.

He’d been so distracted by her presence that he hadn’t heard the approach of skittish steps and insistent chirping. Oh, right, the kids. And Cara, whose booming voice was never far behind when he and Omera may be found in a compromising position. She acts as if she wants to help, yet her timing was, for the most part, pretty awful.

Winta is the first to enter the barn, carrying a tray piled high with food. She sets it down on the free space beside the crate and grabs Din’s wrist to pull him over. He swivels his head around at the other two women as he is tugged, both of their faces alight with humour. Winta still holds his wrist and with her other hand, she points out the different items of food she had gotten him. It takes a fair amount of time, as she explains how best to enjoy each part, then turns to him with a triumphant smile and only now drops his wrist.

“Thank you, it looks great,” he says, and she beams so brightly he thinks she is so easy to please.

“Alright, we’ll leave you to eat and get some sleep,” Omera declares, moving behind Winta and resting her hands on her shoulders.

Din tips his head in parting and they all shuffle out, Omera sending him a shy smile over her shoulder and Cara lifting a hefty pallet to block the door. Once they are alone, the kid squeals in glee from his crib and reaches his arms out to Din. So he wastes no time in pulling the helmet off. He goes to set it down on the crib and pick the kid up, but the little one is so eager that he begins scrambling up Din’s arm anyway.

“When did you turn into such a Kowakian?” he chuckles lightly and adjusts the kid in his arms. He reaches a small green hand to Din’s face, stroking at the scruff there that Din hadn’t bothered to shave. “Yeah, I know. I’ll shave.”

The little one responds in the same warbling he normally does, and Din walks them to the bench to sit down for their meal. The kid sits on the bench, stubby legs stretched out wide and peeking out the bottom of his robes. He is eyeing the food greedily and fidgeting, making Din’s task of rolling up his sleeves and putting a cloth over his lap that much more difficult. Finally, he shares the meal with his son, breaking off small pieces of a bread roll to pass to him rather than let him slobber on the whole thing.

“Not much luck with your people, _ad’ika_ , sorry,” Din explains, ripping off a chunk of bread for himself. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the food here until he took that first mouthful and nearly moaned at the taste.

He clears his throat and feels his ears prick with heat in embarrassment, a silly emotion around the kid, but one he can’t control, nonetheless. He moves onto the stew, focussing on feeding the kid mouthfuls from a spoon and reserving a small amount at the end for himself too.

“The local people on Pyreen knew of your abilities, though not so much of your people. Being a Jedi is much like being a Mandalorian, like a Creed, so you aren’t one unless you want to be, kid. And I don’t care either way, makes no difference to me, you’re still my _aliit_ no matter what you decide.”

He doesn’t know what drives him to keep talking, but he does despite only the kid’s curious head tilts as his replies. Pyreen hadn’t been a total loss, he had learnt a great deal about the kid’s abilities and the Jedi, and another potential place he may find someone that can help.

They finish their meal and the kid looks about ready to drop off, slumping back against the crate and content hands on his bloated abdomen. Din feels fit to burst too with all he’d knocked back and reclines in his chair, stretching his arms back behind his head. It is partway through a yawn that he takes note of the charm hanging from the rafters.

He would be nervous to fall asleep given what his dreams had portrayed in the past week, but seeing the luminous threads shining despite no sunlight streaming in, he figures there really is something spiritual going on in this place.

“Naptime,” Din reports, pulling himself from the chair and beginning to remove his armour piece by piece. He’d maintained it regularly while he had been away, even spending the trip back here polishing it to full lustre, so it was nice to be able to remove it and leave it as is for once.

When the beskar is all piled up neatly and boots kicked off, he yanks his under-armour off to leave him in just his base layers. He will present the village with his spoils from his time away when he wakes, but he figures there is no harm in giving the kid his present early, so he digs in the crate until he finds what he’s looking for. The kid has perked up at his rummaging, an inquisitive eye watching his movements, and then Din is pulling out the rough burlap toy he’d picked up. It is a vibrant mix of reds and oranges and shaped into a chubby frog-like creature. Din cannot help the smile that twitches at his lips when the kid’s eyes lock onto it and he bounces in his spot in excitement.

“They called it a _cyah_. Native to Pyreen, and they were everywhere,” he explains and passes it to him. “I figured you’d like it, just don’t eat it.”

The kid hugs it close to his chest and Din picks them both up to carry over to his cot. Settled down onto his back, he lets out a heavy sigh as his head hits the soft pillow and his body instantly relaxes.

“Just this once, _ad’ika_ ,” he murmurs, eyes already closed and tucking the drowsy kid into his side, though he knows he has said that before, and likely will many more times in vain.

He peeks a look down at the kid as he is softly rambling as if talking to his toy, and stroking a careful caress over the toy’s head. Within a second the kid is nodding off. Din gives a huff of amusement and tugs the kid closer, shutting his eyes again and letting sleep claim him.

* * *

Omera is in the hall helping to prepare the meal for the celebration of Din’s return when she feels a quick poke to her cheek. Startled from her thoughts she looks up and sees Pippa’s kind smile.

“What has put such a look on your face?” Pippa muses, moving past Omera with a large bowl balanced in her other hand. “Could it be because our Mandalorian has returned?”

“Aren’t we all happy he has come back?” Omera counters with a shrug but then shoots a smirk over her shoulder at the other woman.

There is a chorus of agreement from the others in the kitchen with them and then everyone continues with their work. They had a feast planned, and the spotchka would be plentiful, though she knows Din isn’t really one for socialising. But the village was of the mind that there were so few things to celebrate in life, that an effort should be made for every instance, no matter how small.

Amongst their preparations, Din walks through the entrance, his son waddling at his side and looking up at his father as if he was his whole world. Omera imagines Din’s face probably has a similar expression under the helmet.

“How did you sleep?” she calls softly, though even she can tell he appears better in the way he carries himself. She has come so accustomed to his body language that she got a fairly decent shock when he’d walked down the ramp of his ship. He’d looked broken.

“Very well. I think the charm did wonders, I missed it on my ship,” he replies, scooping the boy up once they have made their way to her. “I wondered if I could speak with you for a moment?”

“Go on!” Pippa calls before she can even open her mouth to respond, so Omera just gives him a smile and indicates for him to lead the way.

Din tips his head to the others behind her and then is walking back out and taking her in the direction of the gravesite.

“It’s really taken off,” Din comments as he gestures to the growing wildflowers.

“It was a perfect tribute, thank you.”

He gives a nod then slows his pace to a stop. He lets out a deep sigh and she feels her stomach drop, he was troubled.

“The Moff lives,” he finally utters, placing the boy on a nearby barrel and stroking his little back. “He won’t stop searching for this one, so he will never be safe.”

“Din…,” she whispers, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyes. She wants to say more but doesn’t have the words and all the comes out is a distinct croak.

“But more positives came from this trip than negatives,” he continues, hands fidgeting until they settle on his belt. “They’ll have tracking fobs on the kid that’ll only work if they get in range, but I was careful on my way back here.”

She is trying to wrap her head around all he is saying, but most of it goes right over her head anyway and she suspects she has a less than attractive look on her face in thought. Din suddenly stands straighter and draws her from her thoughts.

“I know this poses a threat to you. And I know when you made me this offer it was when we didn’t realise Imps were still after the kid, so –” he rambles, and she is horrified to think what conclusions his mind must have come to in her silence.

“No, Din, this changes _nothing_ ,” she reassures quickly, stepping forward and looking up into his visor. “You and you boy have a place here through thick and thin. I’m afraid I can’t be much help though. Tracking… all that is a bit beyond me.”

“The Mandalorians, we had these… scramblers, that we had installed around our base on Nevarro. They interfered with tracking data and population density so that we could remain hidden. I salvaged them from our old base and brought them here. I want the village’s permission to install them on the outskirts.”

Omera suspects a large amount of that had been simplified for her, but it all sounded too good to be true and she cannot nod her head in agreement quick enough, “Anything, remember?” she tells him softly.

“Anything,” he agrees, and she is pleased to hear his voice is as thick with emotion as she feels.

“That’s not all,” he continues and rubs the back of his neck absently. “The Covert… I finally made contact, there were survivors, though we are a bit scattered.”

She can tell he is trying to keep his emotions in check, but she can sense the excitement hidden beneath his armour, the _hope_. And she is so unbelievably happy for him, cannot stop the smile that stretches her lips or the way her hands reach forward to squeeze both his arms, “Din, that’s great news! I’m so happy for you.”

He clutches at her elbows too and she thinks she can hear a small relieved laugh escape him.

“Where are they?” she asks, wanting to pull him in close but remembering they are out in broad daylight, so restrains herself and releases his arms. Hopefully there’ll be time for that later.

“There’s a small group that are a few days off. When they get closer, I will meet them on a world close by, then decide what to do, where to rebuild the Covert.”

She hates the thought that he will be off again so soon, but knows how important this is for him. Though she wonders what world would be safer than Sorgan for them, and the idea strikes her.

“Why not here?” she asks, and his helmet snaps to her. She continues before he can question her. “Well, not _here_ , but Sorgan. I know they probably wouldn’t be comfortable in the village, but Sorgan isn’t that small. There’s rarely any trouble here and it would be safe for them while they try to get the rest of your people together.”

She’s already piecing it all together in her head. The old Imperial outpost, though a decent amount of history resided there, and it was a tender subject for lots of people, it would provide them with shelter and a good base to get them started. No one had been there in years, and if Din could install these ‘scramblers’ then scoping out the base and making modifications might not be such a big feat. The village would also be able to help them out and it meant Din wouldn’t have to choose.

She rambles as she explains all that to him, her sentences running over each other in her haste to express all her plans and suggestions. She tries to keep her tone neutral, again not wanting to pressure Din, but she knows she fails miserably.

She finally finishes her spiel and has to catch her breath, and Din only stares on behind the visor. She begins to get self-conscious, wants to apologise for being presumptuous, but then Din is stepping the tiniest bit closer, reaching a hesitant hand out to hers and gently threading his fingers between her own.

“You… You’re kindness knows no end,” he murmurs and she can feel his fingers trembling. They are far enough away from prying eyes that no one will see, but she knows any affection in broad daylight is a challenge for him. “You are the most amazing person I have ever met.”

She swallows against the tidal wave of emotions his words provoke. The feeling was mutual, but she is still so at a loss for why he has any interest in her. She won’t knock it though, instead, she revels in his praise, squeezes his fingers back, “You mustn’t have met many people, I don’t imagine many of them are amazing in your line of work.”

A low laugh rumbles from his chest and he gives a soft shrug, “Fair point, but I mean it all the same.”

“So, it’s a go?” she asks.

“If everyone agrees, it’s a go,” he confirms, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “Thank you.”

She beams brightly at him, practically a sure thing as no one in the village would deny him and his son anything at this point. A celebration was most definitely in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is a long-overdue party!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din makes sure his son and the village are secure, and holds Omera to the promise she made him before he left for Pyreen!

Omera’s cheeks are aching by the time she returns to the kitchen to finish preparing for tonight. Din had walked her back to the hall once they had finished their chat with the promise of seeing her later. He’d looked like he wanted to linger, swaying the slightest bit closer to her at the hall’s entrance, but then his helmet had flickered to the others working in the back and he’d obviously thought better of it. Then he’d turned on his heel and was off.

She partakes in conversations absently with the others as they work, but her eyes keep drifting, seeking out Din through the small panels that let light in. She only glimpses him a couple of times, but even from the distance she can see his determination. Apt fingers work precisely with circuitry and wiring, sparks flying chaotically but never once phasing him. His boy watches from his side, and it warms her to see Din turning to him every other moment, whether to speak to him or make sure he wasn’t getting too close, she wasn’t sure, but the sight was one to behold, nonetheless. Cara joins him eventually and the two of them seem to make quick work of it.

Her preparations take her around the village, getting water from the well, washing dishes in the stream, and she resists the urge to go see what progress Din has made. Instead, she uses the opportunity to speak to the others in the village about the Mandalorians settling into the old outpost. She doubts she has to bother; everyone would be happy at the prospect of something so simple meaning Din and his boy could make a home on Sorgan, but she asks for Din’s peace of mind anyway. And everyone she speaks to is not only in agreement, but accommodating too, already offering how best to help the transition for his people.

Satisfied that the message would get spread, news travels fast in their small village, she contemplates what it will be like to meet other Mandalorians. Will they be like Din? Quiet, reserved and kind? From what Caben had told her, he seemed to be a bit of an oddity amongst his own people. But then her mind begins to wander. Whatever this was between Din and herself, how would their presence affect it? Would Din be different? Would he be embarrassed? Would they approve?

The constant spiral of thoughts, each getting more hopeless than the next, gives her a headache, not to mention the way it clenches her heart. She was being silly, she knew she was. Din was the kindest soul she had ever known. But self-doubt was a complicated emotion and she was still trying to figure out how she had ever managed to catch his eye.

There was something to be said of a simple life such as theirs, and she can see how it would appeal to a bounty hunter that had lost his faith in the galaxy, but there were countless other planets he could have decided were worth his time of day.

She had always been so strong, so sure, but that all flew out the moment he’d come into her life. Maybe it had just been too long since she’d had to worry about anything other than keeping her daughter and the village safe. She huffs out a breath, frustrated with her constant self-consciousness around this man, and pushes it to the back of her mind.

She throws herself back into her work as a distraction. Eventually she ventures to the shed to grab another basket of prepped krill, and she sees they are working on a final contraption on the road leading into the village, at the wood’s edge. They strategically conceal it with an assortment of large rocks and foliage. Looking around the rest of the village, she can only just pick out the other units purely because she knew what she was looking for, and an overturned basket or pallet hadn’t been in that position previously. From the outside, nothing would look amiss.

She decides to not look his way again, for she was getting distracted much too easily, and returns to the hall to finish up.

...

As the sun is setting, the bonfire is lit, and everyone gathers. The aroma of a feast is heavy in the air and flagons of spotchka are passed around while everyone gets settled. The children are running around excitedly, and she laughs as she just now notices their billowing makeshift cloaks, the whooshing noises they make as they spiral around.

They are mimicking Din and she wonders if he’d be flattered or offended.

She can tell he still, for whatever reason, feels inadequate, in more ways than one. But seeing the children playing, and all the village gathered to celebrate him, she isn’t sure what else can be done to show him he’s wrong.

She is getting her own cup filled by Caben when she catches sight of Din exiting the barn with Cara. He pauses when he sees everyone together and Cara gives him a slap on the back and a wide grin. Omera quickly gets another cup filled too and thanks Caben before making her way to them.

“Ah, thank you!” Cara drawls, taking the offered cup and wasting no time in taking a big gulp. She lets off a sound of satisfaction, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and gestures to the bonfire. “Get on over there, big guy, this is for you.”

He looks to the happily mingling villagers then snaps his helmet to Omera, and she can hear how he stammers, clutches his son closer to his chest. He looks nervous, so she gives an apologetic smile and steps closer.

“It’s nothing big,” she reassures as Cara walks off to join everyone. “We know you aren’t really one for parties, but we welcome any excuse. It’s just like the other times, only with more food and spotchka.”

He watches her for a moment, steps closer himself, “That doesn’t sound so bad. If I recall, you get ‘chatty’ when you’ve had a drink.”

Her face instantly heats in embarrassment at the memory, but her stomach flips to think this is his way of flirting.

“I suppose it was too much to wish you didn’t remember those times,” she groans though she is trying to hide her smile behind her cup by the time the words are out.

As usual, silence follows her statement, but she can see the way he takes her in behind the helmet, carefully calculating his response. When it comes, it is barely a whisper.

“I tried to forget, when I left the first time,” he utters and his free hand twitches at his side, moves to rest on his blaster out of habit. “But it was no use, just like trying to stay away was pointless.”

She flushes further at his confession, glancing down to try hide her face. She suddenly wishes they hadn’t planned this party, wishes that she could just lock herself away with him for a while. She longed to kiss him, in Mandalorian fashion _and_ on the lips, but she also just missed being in his presence. Picking his brain about anything and everything, just to hear the deep rumble of his voice, feel it vibrate off his chest.

“I have something, for the village,” he explains into the quiet between them and she realises she hadn’t responded to his last statement.

She looks up as he reaches to grab a large pouch from the child’s grasp, wedged between his little body and Din’s chest and she wonders how she hadn’t noticed it before. It makes a distinct chinking when he holds it out to her and she accepts it with both hands, surprised by the weight.

“Thank you,” she says, knowing the confusion must be written plainly on her face even as she gives an appreciative smile. He didn’t need to get them anything, but when she pulls the drawstring aside, she sees it is full of credits and looks to him alarmed.

“You didn’t have to… this is too much,” she stutters, tries to pass it back but he only holds a hand up to stop her.

“I did some odd jobs while I was away,” he shrugs, though the amount there was more than payment for odd jobs. “Not bounties. Just labour, fixes, security. It's clean, I promise you.”

He must have mistaken her hesitance, so she shakes her head with a warm smile, “I know, Din, I know _you_. But this is too generous.”

“It is to say thank you for all you have done for us, though I know it doesn’t begin to cover it. Please just take it,” he says, and she has no hope of refusing him anything.

She nods, tries to show him how much it is appreciated with her smile, because these days it feels like that is all she can offer him. But then she remembers something else.

“I’ve spoken with everyone,” she begins, holding the pouch close to her chest and fighting to keep her words paced and not rushed in excitement. “We want you to bring your people here, and we will help set you up at the outpost. It is a couple of hours by speeder from here, I can take you there so you can see for yourself.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, though she can see the way his shoulders relax, then Winta and the other children are charging over and asking to play with his son, each of their voices getting higher pitched in their requests.

Din passes his son down to Winta, and they all run off, their laughter ringing out into the darkening sky. Omera inclines her head and leads him over to the bonfire where people take their turns to welcome him back officially and ask about his trip.

She excuses herself quickly to safely stash the pouch in the hall, using the time to smooth out her hair and dress before returning to his side with a wide smile. After a few minutes, one of the elders clears his throat to gather everyone’s attention with his cup raised, and the surrounding conversation fizzles out.

“Firstly, I’d like to extend a warm welcome to our returned guest, I think it is safe to say we have all missed you this past week,” he pauses and looks around to which everyone nods, gives small hoots in agreement. “And we look forward to welcoming your people to Sorgan.”

More cheers erupt with cups risen in toast, and she does the same, smiling over at Din. He holds his boy closer and nods his head in acknowledgement.

“Secondly, thank you to everyone for this feast that has been prepared, so without further ado, let’s enjoy it!” he concludes and sweeps his arm to the hall for everyone to make their way there.

They enter the hall where all the prepared food has been laid out on a long table and everyone quickly gets to dishing out large helpings for themselves. Omera allows Winta to dish out her own for once, and pats her hair lovingly when she looks so excited at the prospect. She can’t help herself but to look to Din at her other side with a smile, and the notion is so unfamiliar.

When she had been expecting Winta she had often imagined what it would be like to be a parent, and she’d pictured her husband being there for all those moments, to share in the look of pride at the child they had created. But he’d been taken from her too soon and she had never experienced that. Until now, it seems. Her stomach twists at the thought.

He doesn’t look her way, too distracted dishing out a serving for his son, who watches on from his perch on top of Din’s shoulder. His little hand is tucked securely onto the back of Din’s helmet as he points enthusiastically with his other hand at the different dishes, eyes wide with excitement. Din is rumbling low in his language to the boy, as if asking what he wants more of, and the child just warbles excitedly no matter what.

“It doesn’t seem fair to have a feast in your honour that you can’t even eat at,” she points out and turns to him with an apologetic frown. “Do you want to take some back to the barn? Or I can pack it for you for later?”

“I’m still mostly full from before, I haven’t eaten this well since I left,” he expresses, still piling the child’s plate high. “I’ll eat later, I can’t lock myself away at my own party, right?”

She smiles at his words, he seems so carefree since waking. She’d been truly concerned when he’d first returned, but clearly a good sleep had cured whatever had been plaguing him.

She finishes getting her own meal, makes sure Winta is also done, then they settle at one of the benches Cara and a few others have already started eating at.

They sit across from each other and get pulled into the current conversation, though she partakes only half-heartedly, distracted by watching Din care for his boy tenderly. She tries to not stare, focusses on her own meal and only glances at him quickly every now and then. His helmet makes it difficult to be certain, but she feels his returning stare intermittently too. The sensation makes her jumpy, hair rising on the back of her neck and stomach churning.

“So tell us what happened on your trip,” Cara asks when the conversation from before dies off. “Omera said you’ve made contact with the other Mandalorians?”

He hums in response, sets his boy up to finish eating by himself and rests his forearms on the table. His gloved fingers twitch nervously into fists before he lets out a deep breath.

“We can leave,” Caben says quickly, gesturing to himself and the few others at the table, and it warms Omera’s heart to know how everyone is so respectful and understanding of Din and his privacy. “We don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s fine,” Din shakes his head. “You’ve been a big help. I went to the cantina by the starport, like you suggested, and found information on a township not far that spoke of the kid’s abilities.”

He inclines his head to Caben, who swells with pride at being able to help, and then everyone is listening eagerly.

“They were legends, stories they shared around bonfires, but were based on reality. One of the elders said he’d last physically seen the powers of these people when he was a young man, but they’d since moved on. He suggested another star system to try, there’s an abandoned temple there apparently that may have scriptures or a new trail. I spent a few days with them, they paid me for maintenance of their speeders, running off pests, that sort of thing. I was planning to travel to the next lead, but I got a message from Karga. Some in the Guild had heard that Moff Gideon, the one after the kid, survived the crash, but his troops had deserted when they assumed him dead. Luckily, he had no backing so didn’t return to Nevarro and the Guild has been able to reclaim the city. Where he is though, is anyone’s guess, and with him alive he’ll no doubt be trying to track the kid. The Mandalorians had a base under the city, we used these scramblers to hide and remain undetected, I went to get them so I could install them here first. And on the way, I got a message from one of my tribe. I’ve been trying to contact them since I left, but their coms were down and only just got repaired. They’re scattered, but our numbers are larger than we thought. We’re going to rebuild the Covert. They’re on their way now and I’ll meet them off-world in a couple of days.”

“You’re relocating here right? Permanently?” Stoke pipes up, glancing around at the other farmers. “That’s what Omera was saying. We’re more than happy to help, all of us.”

Omera smiles at Stoke then turns to Din who has yet to say anything more. His head swivels around and takes in everyone at the table.

“I… I cannot thank you enough,” he murmurs. “I will send a message to them tonight to come straight here. This… it’s a kindness I will never be able to repay.”

Stoke stands and slaps a firm hand to Din’s shoulder, “Don’t worry about it. May you and your people find ties here.”

“May you find ties here,” Omera repeats with the others, sending a warm smile to Din, then Stoke is off to fill his plate again.

They finish their meal with light conversation, but she cannot stop running what Din said through her head. She knows there were more important matters to have taken from his recount, but she finds herself stuck on his time with the town on Pyreen. Jealousy stirs in her stomach at the thought of another village welcoming him, offering him a place and him finding it more accommodating than theirs. Of a woman there that may have caught his eye.

She’s being ridiculous. He is here, after all, but jealousy never was rational.

Due to all their talking, it takes their group longer to eat the meal than the others, so by the time they’re done, the rest of the village has already cleared away their dishes and is out by the bonfire. Omera stands and gathers their dishes into a large basket as Cara is regaling another of her tales at Winta’s request. It is a story she had heard many times, one of Winta’s favourites, and she smiles to her friend before grabbing a spare lantern from another table and excusing herself to wash up. She avoids looking at Din, she’s fairly sure she’d done enough of that at dinner, but is happily surprised when she hears the tell-tale chink of his armour as he swings himself out from the bench.

“I’ll help you,” he utters as he falls into step beside her, collecting the basket from her without missing a beat.

“You shouldn’t be doing dishes at _your_ party,” she reasons, but knows there is no point pressing the matter further, he was stubborn particularly in this regard, so she just unhooks the lantern and carries that.

He merely shrugs and she laughs softly. They walk to the small stream together, the cracking of the bonfire and music fading into the soft chirping of insects and bubbling of water. She places the lantern down and kneels at the streams edge, pushing her sleeves up to get to work and watches him settle at her side. She starts rinsing when she sees from the corner of her eye that he tugs off his gloves and even removes the vambraces on his forearms too. He grabs a dish to start cleaning too and she is so distracted watching his actions that she startles when he begins speaking.

“Before I left, you said when I returned…” he begins but trails off. His helmet had been angled towards her, but now it snaps away and he focusses on anything but her.

“It’s a date?” she finishes when it becomes clear he isn’t going to. Since his departure, she’d thought about their parting an unhealthy amount, so she is happy to know he might have been the same.

He clears his throat but nods all the same.

“I’ll settle Winta to bed then come around?” she tries again, but now she too is avoiding his gaze.

She can see from the corner of his eye how he nods, hands halting in their movement, then he looks up, not at her but across the ponds.

“I’ll see if Cara can watch the kid for the night?”

The bowl she is washing slips cleanly from her fumbling hands at that. It splashes into the water loudly, droplets spraying her and cooling her flushing face. Her stomach flips and her chest tightens with nerves at the possibilities of what he meant for tonight.

“I don’t mean…,” he quickly interjects, clearly seeing her reaction. And she feels sorry for him, he sounds so uncomfortable that she curses herself for being so clumsy. “I don’t have an expectation of tonight. I just want to spend time together and not worry about the kid being woken.”

But that does little to settle her nerves and she watches as the realisation strikes him too. He stays stock-still for a moment then lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head, so uncharacteristic of him, and she thinks he must be that much more nervous.

“I don’t know how to make this right. The more I say the worse it’s sounding.”

She laughs too and reaches out to settle a hand on his arm, careful to make sure she only touches his elbow still covered by his sleeve. She desperately wants to drift her hand to his exposed forearm, skin smooth and stretched over lean muscle, but doesn’t want to startle him. She doesn’t know what she had expected, scars probably, but the skin is unblemished and golden. She snaps herself out of her gawking when she realises she has yet to reassure him.

“I understand. Everything I say around you seems to come out wrong too,” she explains, reaching out to collect the bowl she’d dropped before the slow stream carries it too far away.

He seems to consider her statement, nodding absently, but she gets the feeling there is more going through his head at the moment. She sits back comfortably on her knees and waits for him to be ready to express whatever it is he is clearly struggling with.

Eventually, he takes a steadying breath, “I also don’t think I’m quite ready for… that. Not yet.”

He looks to her now, abandons the bowl he is rinsing and sits back too, forearms resting on his thighs, and lets out a sigh, “I know that’s probably frustrating, I’m sorry.”

He seems so defeated and she feels awful. She hopes she hadn’t been subconsciously pressuring him, it was the last thing she wanted. She has to constantly remind herself that this is all new for him, easy to forget with how his touch affects her and how quickly he seems to adapt and learn.

“I like the pace we’re going,” she smiles warmly and gives a little shrug. She needs to give him more, she can tell, so she gathers herself and urges her voice to stay steady. “… as much as I want you, taking our time like this is fun.”

His helmet stays fixed on her and she knows he is watching her closely from behind the visor, but she loses her nerve and casts her eyes aside as her face burns anew.

“Well, that should do it,” she says, changing the subject and stacking the washed dishes into a basket to carry back.

Din stands quickly, tucking his vambraces and gloves under an arm and picking up the basket before she can.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and the weight of it isn’t lost on her so she smiled in understanding.

Despite his protests, she gathers his gear from under his arm to carry, a small sacrifice because she knows he won’t let her carry the basket.

After dropping the dishes off in the hall, they join everyone around the bonfire again.

Not surprisingly, Cara is challenging whoever glances her way to an arm wrestle, egging everyone on with a cup of spotchka thrust into the air. Omera spies Winta and the other children, bobbing and dancing to the tune being played by a few particularly musical farmers, and Din’s boy is at their feet, wobbling unsteady and clumsy to the rhythm too. His giggling is nearly as loud as the music and Winta bends at her hips to hold his little hands and jig with him. The sight is so heart-warming that even Din lets loose a small chuckle at her side.

Winta then catches sight of them and bounds up to take Omera’s hands.

“Come dance, Mama!” she pleads, shaking their locked hands and Omera lets herself be dragged out to their circle without much protest, feeling Din’s heavy gaze on her back the whole time.

She gets lost in the rhythm, clapping along and laughing as the majority of the village joins in. She sees Din’s boy trying his best to keep up with the beat but cannot make his little body move the way he wants, though the bright smile never slips from his pinkened cheeks. She swoops him up in her arms and sways with him, twirling in circles and holding him close to point out his father at the side-lines. It feels oddly intimate the way she knows Din watches her behind his visor, dancing with his son and laughing into the night air.

Soon Cara makes an appearance at Din’s side and looks to be giving him a hard time judging by her suggestive smirk and waggling brows. Omera decides she’d best not dwell on what they are talking about, face heating exponentially, so she turns back to the others dancing and pushes their piercing eyes to the back of her mind.

The night continues in a whirlwind of dancing, cheering and drinking, though Omera is careful to not have too much knowing that she is seeing Din alone once it all settles down. Din had left to message the other Mandalorians and she settles in beside Cara, who was finally finished challenging the population of the village to a test of strength and satisfied with her victory.

“I hear I’m on babysitter duty tonight,” Cara teases, sending her a wink.

Omera stammers and feels her face heat beyond what all the dancing had induced, “I’ll settle Winta to bed with Din’s boy too, if you don’t mind just keeping an eye out. Though judging by them over there, I doubt they’ll even stir until morning.”

The night chill has set in and the children clearly tire first. They are all slumped in a circle to the side of the quieting party, the child tucked snuggly in Winta’s lap.

“I’m happy to help,” Cara shrugs, all teasing gone from her face and only genuine happiness residing there. “Din said he’ll come to pick up the kid later. Just between us, I think he missed the little one way more than he’s letting on.”

“I think your right,” she agrees, and soon she sees Din exiting the barn and heading back to the bonfire.

Winta slowly clambers to her feet and approaches him and even from here, Omera can see how she staggers on her feet. Next thing she knows, Din is crouching to her height and picking both Winta and the child in her arms up. The sight is so breath-taking, Winta tucked snuggly to his chest and the little one cuddled in too, and her cheeks strain in a smile. Winta is probably beyond the years of being carried, but then she remembers Din had picked her up too as if she’d weighed nothing.

“And he thinks he isn’t a natural father,” Cara laughs, shaking her head as he approaches them.

Omera just has time to send her an agreeing smile before Din steps up to them and she stands too.

“Bedtime, is it?” she asks softly, stroking Winta’s hair back from her forehead. Winta’s dark eyes flutter open and she gives a sleepy smile.

“Hmm,” Din hums and they all make their way to her hut just as the rest of the village is quieting down too.

He sets the two down gently in Winta’s bed and steps back. Gathered amongst them in his arms was a thick woven bundle, and he kneels down beside the bed to unwrap it. Omera watches curiously from a few paces back and sees as he produces a doll. It is only small but has fiery hair and a matching orange dress.

“I picked you up something,” he whispers to a quickly fading Winta and tucks the doll under her arm.

Omera feels tears prick at her eyes and she curses her tipsy self for being so emotional when she glances over at Cara. She grins back at her with raised brows, both clearly as surprised as each other, and then Cara makes a quiet exit.

“I like her hair,” Winta mumbles quietly, stroking the red and orange threads and casting her eyes to the sleeping boy. And now Omera sees he too has a small toy. “It matches his.”

Din gives her a nod and tucks the blankets up high around their shoulders, “ _Nuhoy pirusti_. Sleep well.”

Before he can stand, Winta reaches a limp hand up to his shoulder clumsily and shifts up a little out of the bed. Din waits patiently and she settles her forehead against his helmet gently. She settles back down with a sleepy smile and Din is frozen still. Her eyes drift shut and she snuggles deeper into the blankets, then Din waits a moment longer before he is pulling himself up to stand and gazes down at the two.

The whole moment is so surreal to witness and she doesn’t want to speak to disrupt it, so she backs out into the sitting area quietly. He seems to be moving as if on autopilot and she wishes she knew what was going on inside his helmet. She is reminded that Winta had mistakenly called him ‘Dad’ previously, and now this. Surely his mind must be running a mile a minute. Maybe she’d find out soon.

“I’ll be over in about half an hour?” she whispers softly, and he nods slowly, leaving the hut still seeming a bit distracted.

* * *

Din walks into the dimly lit barn, chest tight and hands shaking with tension. Settling the kids to bed had done little to ease his nerves, especially when Winta had pulled him down for a gentle _kov’nyn_. It had felt so right, and he is truly shocked to his core. It was one thing with Omera, and the little one, but for Winta to also respect that part of his culture was overwhelming.

He paces for a bit, then his nerves kick into further overdrive when he realises Omera will be over soon. He takes a calming breath. Weapon and armour maintenance, that will surely settle his pounding heart.

He quickly pulls the drapes across at the entrance to the barn and returns to the bench in the back to remove his armour piece by piece, kicking off his boots. He removes his cloak and under armour too until he is in just his base layers and helmet. He pulls the drape aside for when Omera arrives and then tugs his long sleeves up to his elbows to begin polishing the beskar and laying out his weapons neatly.

He is just finishing up when he hears purposefully heavy steps on the wooden boards outside the barn and a soft voice, “Knock, knock, Din?”

He turns to the sound as he sees her peer around the corner, eyes downcast in what he thinks is probably precaution in case he didn’t have his helmet on. She slowly brings her eyes up and finds him in the back of the barn and smiles brightly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, setting the last of his weapons aside and walking to meet her halfway.

She steps right up to him, reaching out for his bare hands gently and rolling onto her toes to touch her forehead to his helmet. At the contact, a sigh escapes him before he can hold it back and he presses a little firmer into her, trembling fingers unwinding from hers and travelling up her arms. She stays still and her eyes slide shut, his cool fingers passing over her shoulders and cradling her face hesitantly. A shaky breath slips from her parted lips and she smiles softly, long fingers coming up to encircle his wrists.

“The way you honour my religion means so much to me,” he utters, releasing her face and pulling back to take her in. She waits a moment before opening her eyes again and then draws him into a tight hug as he continues. “I know kissing like this isn’t exactly the most exciting for non-Mandalorians.”

She breathes a laugh and nuzzles into his neck, arms locked around him and his own winding around her waist, her soft hair cascading over his knuckles. He has only held her this close without his armour once, and that time he had had his under armour on too. Like this, he can feel the heat radiating from her body even through the thick layers of her dress, swears he can feel her heart pounding just as quickly as his. And then he realises she can probably feel _his_ heart and he finds he doesn’t really care. Surely, she must know the effect she has on him by now.

“It feels pretty exhilarating to me, such a deep connection” she counters to his earlier statement, her cold nose pressing up under the edge of his helmet and warm breath fanning the oversensitive skin. It is a dizzying combination. “But I also love kissing you the other way too.”

“As do I,” he agrees, unable to stop a hand from rubbing her back soothingly.

“And as much as I think you’re sexy as hell in all your armour, I like hugging you like this,” she confesses with another quick squeeze before leaning back to look up into his helmet.

Her words make his body burn up and a sense of pride swells his chest that she likes him in his armour as well as out of it.

She leaves his embrace and he walks to switch the porch lantern off, satisfied to see the rest of the village has retired for the night too. She has flicked the one-off on the table and settles herself on the edge of his cot, removing her boots and lining them up neatly on the floor. He pads softly across the barn and joins her, scooting back until he sits across the bed and leans against the wall. She positions herself at his side too with a beaming smile but then leans over his outstretched legs towards the bedside table.

“I want to hear your voice again,” she smiles, hand hovering over the lantern providing them with their only source of light.

He gives a small laugh and thinks it over only briefly before lifting his hands to his helmet, “Okay. If you close your eyes, we can leave the lantern on.”

He swallows thickly at her bright smile. It was a huge leap, just like in the forest before he left last week, but he figures baby steps will help. And when she leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to the cheek of his helmet, he knows his faith is well placed.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she says looking deep into his visor before closing her eyes with a blushing smile. He misses her eyes instantly, but she is no less beautiful like this.

Her smile increases when the hiss of his helmet release sounds in the air and she leans back to her original position at his side. Once the helmet clears his face, he turns his head to watch her as he sets it down at his other side. Her lips are pursed, as if holding her breath and he is silent for a time, just taking in her face with his bare eyes. The low light makes her eyelashes cast long shadows down her pink cheeks, legs tucked sideways underneath her and her fingers knitted together in her lap. His own fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and brush the hair back over her shoulder.

Then suddenly her breath bursts out of her in a soft laugh, “Say something!”

“I don’t know what to say,” he laughs too, realising she had been sitting quietly, waiting for him to speak just so she could listen.

“There it is,” she sighs in content once the words are out, leans her head gently on his shoulder, hand trailing over blindly to rest on his abdomen. “Will you teach me some more of your language? Even just some words?”

“Hmm,” he agrees, contemplating his options as he moves his arm around her and reaches out with his other hand to twirl a lock of her long hair around his finger. “ _Mesh’la_.”

She repeats it slowly back to him, her pronunciation careful, “What does it mean?”

“Beautiful,” he murmurs back and watches in satisfaction as her face reddens further.

She moves to hide her face in his shoulder, her hand leaving him to tuck her hair nervously behind her ear and a soft giggle escapes her, “Is there an equivalent for handsome?”

“No, Mando’a doesn’t have masculine or femininity,” he replies, and it is his turn to feel his face heat.

“Oh,” she nods and settles back onto his shoulder comfortably, hand resting on his upper abdomen again. He swallows thickly and guides her hand up until it settles just left of centre on his chest, presses his hand over hers and wondering if his heart is really beating as loud as it sounds in his ears.

“ _Kar’ta_. Heart.”

Again, she repeats it carefully, sitting forward and taking his hand to mirror his actions against her own chest and whispers it again.

“ _Ori’jate_ ,” he chokes and is reassured to feel the frantic flutter under his palm.

She reaches out with wandering hands until she finds his shoulders, getting a firm purchase, inhaling carefully and then sliding over his legs until she is sitting with a knee on either side of his own, “And what does that mean?”

His breath hitches at her change in position, but his hands settle of their own accord on her hips lightly.

“Very good,” he translates, then eases a hand up to softly brush her closed eyelids, transfixed as she squeezes them shut in response and he can see the flicker of movement behind them. “ _Sur’haai._ Eye.”

Her own fingers flit up from his shoulders, gently seeking then brushing his eyelids softly, “ _Sur’haai._ ”

“ _Uram_ ,” he whispers and brushes the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, wishing there was a translation better than ‘mouth’.

He is captivated by her mouth when her lips part slightly to draw in a breath and she moves her face closer, mimics his utterance and touches her lips softly to his bare cheek.

His hands are hovering over her shoulder blades and hers have slipped to clutch his biceps as he edges her closer, “ _Mureyca_. Kiss.”

She barely manages to repeat it before she is pressing her lips to his softly. He inhales deeply through his nose and works to stop his hands from fidgeting, but the only way he knows how is to pull her closer. And she is all too eager to comply, scooting up further on his lap and pressing him into the wall. He watches as her eyes remain screwed shut, then eases his own closed too.

...

_[Link to "fill in the blanks" chapter one!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876319/chapters/60185521#workskin) _

...

He feels worked up beyond belief and eventually has to break away with a soft apology. They had turned the lantern off amongst it all, so she didn’t have to strain to keep her eyes shut, and he is glad for it now despite his initial disappointment. He would find it hard to settle himself down if he were still able to see her.

She reassures him it is fine, more than fine, and pushes him to ease down beside her on his back. She closes in and rests her head against his chest, fingers running soothing circles across his abdomen. His arm cradles her snuggly to his chest and he wedges his other arm behind his head as a pillow.

He works on evening out his breathing, lulled by her soft ministrations and blinking blindly up at the rafters he cannot see, but knows are there.

“Omera?” he asks softly into the silence.

“Hmm?”

He breathes deep, swallows his nerves, “… I want to show you my face.”

Her finger instantly stops in the circle it had been creating and he hears as she pushes up onto an elbow to speak to him, her hand smoothing up his chest and holding his cheek, “Din… I don’t need that.”

“I know,” he mutters, taking a hold of her wrist and turning his face to press a kiss to her palm. “But I do. I can’t express how much it means to me that you not only respect my culture but honour it.”

“What will it mean for you if you show me? What of your Creed?”

He knew this would come up, so he clears his throat and moves to sit up properly.

“It’s more what it means for you. You know I can show my face to _ad’ika_ because he is my clan, if I were to show you…,” he explains softly, reaching to braid his fingers gently with her own even as his voice breaks and he clears it to continue. “You will also be my _aliit_.”

He is already running the vows through his head and knows he is going about this all wrong. Vows come before revealing one’s face, much before kissing too, but he figures he has already screwed it up drastically, so what difference does it make at this point? And a part of him, a part larger than he cares to admit, is worried she might gaze upon him and regret ever wanting anything to do with him. It is irrational, she is much too kind, but having your face hidden for the vast majority of your life made such things a bit complicated.

But she hasn’t said anything, and he worries he’s been reading all the signs wrong, made a complete fool of himself and ruined the very fragile happiness he has created here.

“Please say something,” he pleads, shuffling closer to where he assumes she is and reaches blindly for her face. He grazes her cheeks and notices a dampness there that shatters his heart. “Are you crying?”

She shakes her head violently within his grasp and a choked laugh reaches him, “Sorry, I’m not upset. I just never thought I’d feel this way again. And for you to say you want me… as a part of your _aliit_?” she trails off and he can feel her shaking her head again. “I’m so happy. I was already always yours, but does this mean… you might also be mine?”

He feels his heart jump into his throat and he wipes her tears away gently, “Yes.”

Then she is nearly knocking him over with the force of her rushed kiss, and he presses his lips back against hers just as enthusiastically. He eases back from the kiss and she does too, removing herself from his arms.

“I’ll keep my eyes closed until you tell me. Turn the lantern on,” she instructs softly, and he leans back, patting his hands along the cot until he finds the bedside table and the lantern there.

“Okay,” he utters, and when she confirms her eyes are shut tight, he flicks it on and watches as the waning flame illuminates her face.

She is sitting cross-legged on the cot, hair dishevelled, and reddened lips curled into a smile. He moves the lantern between them and watches as her eyes screw tighter shut at the added brightness. He takes in a deep breath through gritted teeth and skims his fingers over her own and grasps them gently, “Okay.”

“Are you sure?” she whispers, angling her face down into her lap, but he feels the electric pulse of nerves in her twitching fingers.

He gives her fingers a firm squeeze in answer and then watches fascinated as her eyelashes flicker with her opening eyes. He holds his breath, but her gaze remains downcast, pausing at his abdomen for a moment before very slowly and almost hesitantly trailing up, her smile never wavering.

Until her eyes meet his and the smile slips from her face and her breath catches in her throat. His does too as he watches her regard him for a few seconds. Pain blossoms in his chest from lack of air as her eyes study his face intently as if mesmerised. Seeing her dark eyes plainly, being able to stare back into them without the barrier of his helmet, is something he feels he will never get used to, he is captivated by their depths.

She has yet to say anything but rocks towards him and reaches her hands up slowly. Dark irises flicker around his features frantically.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” she whispers, then eases her eyes shut and brings her cool fingers to his face, tracing his features like she has done each time he has been without the helmet. Clearly, she finds something she likes because her lips stretch into a breath-taking smile and she opens her eyes to look deeply into his once more. “It is you.”

He watches her carefully, feels his own lips twitch into a half-smile and a small laugh leaves him even as his nerves riot. Her eyes instantly snap to his lips.

“And I was right about your smile,” she begins, tracing the bow of his lip with an index finger. “My knees are weak. It is truly a crime to have to hide your face.”

“So, you approve?” he manages to croak. “Do I pass?”

Now she laughs, the sound lilting and like a bell, and lowers her hands into her lap, “Din, I pictured you in my mind as handsome, but my imagination even came up short. You’re so hot! For lack of a better description.”

Pride swells in his chest and he laughs too, feels his ears prick with heat and she rushes forward to cup his cheeks, holding his face tenderly.

“How often have you gone red like this under the helmet without me knowing?” she questions, seeming completely offended, and it only makes him redden further. “It seems wholly unfair.”

He reaches his hands up to press against hers, holding her hands to his face and chuckling softly, “Well, now you know I was telling the truth. I’m mostly smiling when I’m with you, I’m always watching you, and I go just as red as you.”

She watches his lips as he speaks, her smile widening with each word, and he glides his fingers down her arms and sides until they can rest at her waist. She is still smiling as she leans forward, but it slowly drops as her eyes drift between his lips and his eyes. He does the same until her lips are so close he can feel her warm panting breaths against his own and he slides his eyes shut just as she presses forward into him for another kiss.

...

After some time, they finally break apart and Din leans back to look at her flushed face, eyes darkened nearly entirely with her pupils.

“... I might need to stop now, is that okay?” he asks apologetically, but her answering laugh is just as breathless and she brushes the fingers of a hand through his hair, the other clutching his bare bicep firmly.

“It’s probably for the best. I don’t know how much more of that I could take,” she breathes, and he pushes himself up on an elbow to look down into her face concerned. “It’s... been a long time for me, not since Winta’s father. And I’ve wanted you for a long time. So, as much as you say you feel like a hormonal teenager, I am the same.”

He can see she is embarrassed at her admission, but it only gives him more confidence, they weren’t so different after all. He leans down to peck her lips again quickly then moves to settle against the wall like before, the cool wicker wall sending a chill over his bare back. He coaxes her to sit between his legs and lean against his chest as he wraps his arms tightly around her.

“This pace probably frustrates you then–”

“No, not at all,” she quickly defends, settling a reassuring hand on his clothed knee, and he is thankful there is no more bare skin for her to touch. He only just handles the small zaps of electricity all through his chest where she leans on him, even through her thick dress. “I’m hormonal like a teenager... but also nervous like one. It feels like this is my first time experiencing these things.”

He feels a smug smile stretch his lips as he tucks her head under his chin, “Good then?”

“Better than good,” she confirms and twists to look up at his face so he quickly loses the smugness. “I don’t know how I’ll manage now. When I first heard your voice, I was obsessed for days, I still am. But now I’ve seen your face... if only everyone else knew what was under your helmet. I’d have an even harder time keeping woman away.”

Her words embarrass him, but still stroke his ego as he laughs softly in disbelief, “You’re making that up.”

“You don’t see yourself very clearly, Din,” she shakes her head but cuddles back into his chest anyway.

He runs his fingers through her long hair in thought, the skin at the nape of her neck clammy. He isn’t surprised, he feels overly hot himself, but he had the added advantage of being shirtless unlike her with the heavy fabric of her dress. The whole situation just feels so surreal that he wonders when he will wake up and realise it was all a cruel dream. He clears his throat, suddenly choked with emotion.

“I never thought there would ever be anyone for me. Until I met you. And to know you feel the same... I don’t deserve this,” he acknowledges sombrely, rubbing small circles onto her upper arm, callouses catching softly on the well-worn material.

“You do,” she whispers fiercely, nuzzling her face against his chest softly and placing a tender kiss to the hollow at the centre of his collarbone. “You deserve more happiness than anyone I know.”

He hums, knowing there is no point trying to disagree with her. She still put him up on a pedestal he in no way was worthy of, but a selfish part of him didn’t want to come down from it. So he continues to stroke her hair in silence, wondering how he’d ever be able to pay the galaxy back for bringing her into his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Much excite! I hope it wasn't too sappy/out of character, but it got away on me! 
> 
> I've tried to leave it a bit ambiguous, nothing majorly steamy happened (much), but I wanted to keep it just mostly suggested so that everyone still feels happy to continue reading. I hope I managed to accomplish that! I do have a drafted piece that kind of "fills in the blanks" that I thought I could post as a separate work if people are interested? And then I could add to that collection from time to time if other... 'situations' arise? But be warned I am very new to this and will most likely not be writing hugely graphic scenes! 
> 
> But enough rambling, thank you for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cara manages to squeeze her daily teasing in, Din and Omera seem to be on different pages, and they begin their preparations for the Mandalorians!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for Cara's vulgar teasing, the conversation doesn't really serve any other purpose so feel free to skip it if you so wish. Ahh! Again, I'm sorry for the delay! Otherwise, thank you for reading and putting up with my all-over-the-place updates!

Despite having slept a decent amount already today, Din finds himself drowsy again with a warm and dozing Omera lounging against him. He realises she may have asked him something when movement prompts his eyes open. She is craning her neck around to look up at him with a softly amused smile on her glowing face.

“Hmm?” he hums softly, tightening his arms around her and slouching further down the wall.

She chuckles softly and reaches a gentle hand to his face, caresses soft fingertips under one of his eyes.

“You’re fading,” she observes.

“I’m alright. Just playing catch up.”

“I should be heading back, otherwise I might fall asleep here.”

He wants to suggest that that doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, has almost willed himself to utter the words, but his eyes have drifted shut without his knowledge and she is softly jostling him again.

He murmurs a soft apology and they untangle themselves from each other with shy glances and giddy smiles. He likes the way her eyes keep wandering to him, taking in his face, his naked chest, with an intensity he is unfamiliar with.

He regrets having to pull his shirt back over his head, but her heated stare and seeing her affected so by his presence was doing nothing to prepare him to say goodnight as they’d planned. Pulling her boots back on seems to require an unusual amount of concentration and he likes to think she is trying to distract herself from his presence too.

“I’ll bring your son over so you don’t have to put all your armour back on,” she whispers into the stillness of the night when they venture to the entrance of the barn. “I’ll be right back.”

He’d like to offer to walk her back to her hut, kiss her goodnight like a normal date that doesn’t fear his face being seen, but he can’t, and she deserves so much better.

Her brows scrunch as if she can read his thoughts and the look of sympathy does not belong on a face that had looked so breathtakingly content a moment prior. She steps up to him, drags her nails up the back of his neck and into his hair as she leans a gentle touch to their foreheads.

And all his worries and self-doubt wash away as he cups a hand to the back of her neck too with a shaky breath.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and she gives a final nuzzle before she is stepping back and exiting.

He watches her from the security of the barn as she unlatches the lantern from the porch and lights her way back to her hut.

The night had gone… unexpectedly well.

He paces the barn awaiting her return, running though it all again in his mind. Mando’a rolling off her tongue as if she’d been meant to speak his language her whole life. The way her lips moulded around his, teaching and coaxing. The _other_ ways she had been teaching and coaxing. And finally, the way her inquisitive eyes had flitted around his face, seeming to appreciate what they found there. She was beautiful, but the way she gazed at him, he thinks she might have thought the same about his face.

He thought showing his face would have been the hard part. He’d explained what it would mean, but he suspects she doesn’t understand that he was basically proposing in a not-so-obvious way. The follow up of that has his stomach in knots, much different from the tightening pressure kissing her had induced. He doesn’t have the faintest clue of how to broach the subject now.

Likewise, he wants it to be special for her. They could just speak their vows here and now and it would be done. He runs through them in his head, and although he gets stumped a few times, he is confident it wouldn’t take long for him to recite them as second nature. But he understands other customs tend to be much more lavish than their Mandalorian equivalents and he knows some place great importance on the party as well as the ceremony. Parties never were really his scene, but if it were at all like these nights on Sorgan, just around a bonfire with music and dancing… well, he thinks that would be alright.

It all gives him a headache and he realises he is getting ahead of himself. His tribe would be here in a week and that took precedence right now. 

Their arrival brings apprehension.

He is indebted to the village for being so accommodating. Not only for him and _ad’ika_ , but for also welcoming the rest of his people without asking for anything in return. But he worries what else their arrival brings with it.

He has made it abundantly clear, to himself at least, that he intends to marry Omera, but what that means for his Creed, he doesn’t know. He worries that Winta will see the other Mandalorians and fear them, and in turn that fear might transfer to him also. He worries that the Mandalorians won’t be able to see past the simple life of a krill farmer, to the strength and spirit at the heart of these people.

He sighs, only time will tell. But one thing was for sure, he needed to speak with his people.

As if waiting for him to finish his internal ramblings, she returns just as he has resigned himself to put all that to rest for the night. The kid sleeps snuggly in her arms, toy clutched tightly in his grasp. Easing him down into his crib she gives a fond smile and tucks him in as Din steps up behind her. His hand twitches, hesitating to settle on her lumbar, but he loses his nerve and drops it to his side as she turns to him.

“The doll you bought Winta, it’s beautiful. I can tell it will be her new favourite,” she whispers warmly, eyes darting his face again.

“I’m glad. I wondered if she were too old for dolls,” he explains, feeling his face redden. He doesn’t feel nervous until he realises the helmet no longer covers his embarrassment. What a strange sensation.

“We are never truly too old for dolls. At some point we believe we are, but it isn’t true. Especially if given by someone dear to us.”

“Perhaps I should have gotten you one too, instead,” he begins and finds himself wanting to grin at the perplexed cock of her head. He returns to the crate on the bench, lifting out another small bundle and passing it to her. He’d been trying to think of ways to give her the gift, but had understandably gotten distracted recently.

He passes it to her, fascinated to watch her eyes light up and peer at what was inside.

“It’s not much,” he quickly interjects, worried she has gotten her hopes up, but is pleasantly surprised when she gasps at the sight of the small flower carved from pale wood. “This flower is sacred to the tribe I visited, they believed it was good luck, protection. Like your threads here.”

He is suddenly self-conscious in the quiet that follows his explanation, rubbing the back of his burning neck.

“Din… thank you,” she whispers, cradling the small carving delicately in her hands and lips curling into a soft smile.

He realises he has been staring intently without the shield of his visor, so he clears his throat and casts his eyes down to his feet.

They bid their goodnights, both seeming to understand the unspoken decision to leave it at words and not another kiss. But the air between them is so charged that his body feels the caress of lips as her eyes give him a final sweep, taking a beat longer than necessary to trail his face.

Despite being so worked up, sleep finds him easy once he has boarded himself in for the night.

…

He awakens early the next day, earlier than most of the village he’d say judging by the silence that greets him upon lifting aside the pallet at the barn’s entrance. Casting his eyes out, he sees the morning sun just beginning to peek through the woods, everything still shadowed in the purple-grey of dawn. Smoke trails slowly from the hall and carries with it the promise of food.

The kid had woken while Din was donning his armour, stumbling to his feet in the crib with a dozy coo as claws hooked over the sides. Now when Din turns back to him, he raises his arms to be picked up and wastes no time clinging to his chest plate for purchase.

He reclines in Din’s arms with a soft yawn as they make their way to the hall but instantly brightens and starts bobbing excitedly when the aroma of food reaches his little nose. On the way over he sweeps his gaze to Omera’s hut to see if she has risen yet and falters when he sees Cara lounging on the porch with a knowing glint in her eyes even from this distance. He gets the impression that she had been sitting there, watching him exit the barn silently with the sole purpose of waiting for him to let his eyes wander so she could tease him.

She unhitches herself from the chair she sits in and makes her way to him to enter the hall together. A couple of the villagers are in the back preparing the morning meal and send kind smiles when they look up from their work.

“Have a seat!” one calls over the clanking and bubbling. “I’ll bring some over.”

Din wants to protest, feels rude, they don’t have to run around after him like this. But they were all as stubborn and accommodating as Omera and would likely ignore his attempts anyway. Knowing it would be a losing battle, they settle in at the nearest table and within a few minutes a tray piled high with food is brought to them.

“Thank you,” he nods. “It looks great.”

“Don’t thank us! Omera showed us all the credits you earnt for us–”

“It is the least I can do,” he waves them off kindly and they shake their head in good humour before retreating to finish the rest of their preparations.

Cara begins unloading all the food and setting it out as Din gets the kid positioned to eat. She waits all of two seconds before prodding him.

“So,” she drawls slowly, clearly waiting for him to catch on, which he adamantly refuses to. “Do I have to ask outright? Come on Din, enlighten me.”

He thinks it through as he organises the kid’s meal in front of him, but notices he is missing the basket they use as a booster seat normally. The littles one’s face looks positively frantic from where he tries to peer onto the table but his short legs do not give him enough height.

Sighing, figuring again that once cannot hurt, he settles the kid onto his knee. When grabbing hands instantly make a quick reach for the closest item of food, Din scolds gently and helps him. He still hasn’t answered Cara, and a quick glance up shows that she doesn’t plan to relent, she just watches him expectantly.

Satisfied the kid is mostly sorted, he relaxes one arm on the table and keeps a securing hand around the kid. He isn’t sure who the security is for though.

“I showed her my face,” he murmurs quietly, thinking she probably doesn’t need to know that he’d also shown Omera his bare top half.

He had purposefully avoiding looking into her face as he admitted that, but now that a few seconds have passed and she has yet to tease him, he gets worried and glances up. The movement seems to jolt her from her shock and a kind look overcomes her face.

“That must have been a big thing for you,” she expresses, voice soft, face gentle, and he is reminded that despite her hard exterior, Cara has a gentle heart and is a true friend.

It is so easy to forget when she favours vulgar suggestions and knowing smirks.

He hums in response, thinking back in how it had indeed felt like a big thing at the time, but had also come so naturally, as if she’d been seeing thought the beskar this whole time anyway.

“She… she likes my face,” he utters carefully, trying to act nonchalant and as if her compliments hadn’t played over in his mind all night. But then self-doubt rears its ugly head. “Well, she said she did, but I suppose she is hardly going to say I’m hideous to my face. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”

“No,” Cara agrees, and then her smile is taking on a truly devilish undercurrent and she kicks at his leg under the table. “What about another bone though, huh?”

He snaps his eyes to her, freezing where he sits and even the kid looks up at him in alarm at the sudden change.

He knows exactly what she is getting at even without her insistent gestures to his lap, and he realises that having a relaxed morning meal with his boy had been too much to hope for. It was as if she knew about last night, but she couldn’t know, could she?

His face heats and he feels tongue tied, thoroughly blindsided that she knew the intimacies of his time with Omera. He is never going to live this down.

He sees as the teasing smirk in Cara’s eyes makes way for shock and she booms with laughter.

“Well I was kidding!” she roars, slapping her hands down on the table and leaning in. Her outburst alerts those in the kitchen and they gaze over with laughter, though he is certain they couldn’t know what they are talking about. Most likely just used to Cara’s boisterous personality.

“But now you’ve intrigued me,” she continues, and he realises his mistake.

Despite coming to know Cara well, he is still not well versed in what is just her perceptive teasing, and what she has actually observed. But now he has given her something to think about, and he doesn’t like to dwell on where that train of thought might lead her.

“That’s…,” he cuts in on her laughter, clearing his throat and wondering how he is going to fix this. “That’s none of your business.”

Nice. Now he has just confirmed her suspicions.

He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration at himself and abruptly stands with the kid in his arms. He is completely done with this conversation at the expense of his dignity, and spins on his heel to storm off. The kid makes a soft grumble of protest at being disrupted before he could get every last scrap of food, though he’d managed pretty well. Din feels bad, but he _needs_ to get out of there.

Cara’s laugh follows him out and he can just hear the chiding she receives from the villagers. Hurried footsteps approach him as he is rounding the well and he is about to insist Cara to please leave him be for the time being when a light hand touches his shoulder. Much too light for Cara’s touch.

He halts his retreat and turns to see the kind face of one of the villagers, “You must be hungry too.”

Looking down, he sees they have packed up a small parcel of food for him, and their gentle eyes speak of apologies on behalf of Cara. He takes the offering with his spare hand, feeling the kid perch up no end at the idea of more food.

“Thank you,” he murmurs with a tip of his helmet to which they give a quick nod and hurry back into the hall.

He gives a deep sigh at his over-reacting and continues on towards the barn to eat in peace, stomach grumbling at the thought.

* * *

Omera rises later than normal the next day, awoken by soft breaths and the feeling of someone watching her. Blinking her eyes open, she finds the culprit is Winta, standing at her bedside with wild hair and a doll clutched in her arm.

“You’re awake!” she rejoices then quickly falls into a concerned frown as she perches on the bed edge. “Are you feeling okay? You never sleep this long.”

“I just had a late night,” she says suppressing a yawn. She scoots back to give her daughter room to lay down too.

“What’s that?” Winta asks, pointing lazily to the wood carving on the bedside table then settling in, Omera fingers instantly moving to run through the mess of tangles on her head.

“A gift from the Mandalorian. A good luck charm,” she explains, smiling fondly at the memory.

“I know his real name, he told me,” Winta whispers as if conspiring. “It’s Din.”

Omera can’t help the slight widening of her eyes in shock at the admission, but she is beyond delighted that he trusts her own daughter with this too. “It is,” she confirms.

“What do you think his people will be like? Like him?”

She gazes up to the rafters in thought, humming softly in acknowledgement to Winta, “I think they will be quiet like him. Strong like him. But they may not be as kind. His people have suffered a great loss and are likely still mourning. It would be normal for them to only be comfortable with their own. I will speak with him, but it might be best if we keep our distance when they are here, from Din too.”

“What?” Winta suddenly sits up and looks down at her with a heart broken expression on her sweet face. “Do you think they won’t like us?”

“No, I don’t think that. But we don’t want to make Din uncomfortable, do we? Remember what I told you, he is always trying to do what is best for everyone else, regardless of his own feelings. He might feel his people want him to act a certain way, and he might feel _we_ want him to act a certain way. I wouldn’t want to make him choose, would you?”

Winta is silent for a while, deep in thought, and then she is settling back down onto the pillow, “I think he’d choose you, Mama.”

Omera swallows thickly at the thought, that even her daughter might have noticed. If a child could pick up on it, surely his people would, and she doesn’t know what that would mean for him. Gazing at her daughter, she realises it is not only her heart that Din holds, and it is too late to protect either of them from the potential for it to be broken.

“Maybe. But I won’t ever make him choose,” she sighs softly, tucking Winta’s unruly bed hair behind an ear. “His culture is very important to him. It takes up a large part of him and there may not be a lot more to give… I know you like him, but he may need to leave us, love. And if that day comes, I need you to be strong and not let him know how sad it makes you, even if it hurts. Do you think you can do that?”

She can see as Winta takes it all in, an unreasonable request of one so young, but necessary, nonetheless. She needed to be prepared, but when Winta responds, it is without hesitation, “I promise, Mama.”

“Good girl,” she croaks, cradling her head gently and placing a firm kiss to the crown of her head. She blinks the tears back harshly and swallows her emotions so she can smile into Winta’s guarded face. “Now let’s get some breakfast.”

…

She hasn’t seen Din by the time she is wading into the ponds to start with the harvest. Him and his boy had apparently risen early and already eaten by the time she had joined the rest of the village in the hall, everyone looking a little worse for wear. She feigned a slight hangover too as reason for her late rising, no one needed to know that the real reason was that she’d spent until the early hours of the morning in Din’s arms.

She still feels the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach on thinking of last night. He had looked so nervous as he’d shown his face, and she was just as nervous upon seeing it and realising he was even further out of her league than she’d assumed. The crazy thing is that he isn’t even aware of it, that he has probably broken so many hearts without them having even seen his face.

He was truly lethal, in all regards.

And he was _hers_. In what way, she was still a bit uncertain, but she’d come to the conclusion a long time ago that she would whatever he was willing to offer.

An escalating chorus of excitement draws her attention to the children in their lessons outside the hall. Even from this distance, she can see they are trying to be good and pay attention, but something over on the tree-line keeps drawing their attention. Following their pointing hands and excited glances, she is not surprised to find the source of such distraction to be Din himself. He and Cara are standing there, appearing to be in deep conversation, before he is passing his boy to her and she paces a safe distance away. The jetpack is fitted to his back and once assured they are at a safe distance, he is firing it up and blasting into the air.

And now there is no hope in keeping the children’s attention occupied with lessons. She chuckles to herself as ‘Old Nan’, as they call her, throws her hands up in defeat, but a good-humoured smile adorns her face. She ushers the children to sit at the edge of the village in a neat line to watch, and looking around, Omera notices most of the village has pauses in their work to witness his skill too.

The way he hurtles through the air is terrifying, but his precision and calculated manoeuvres are clear. And she thinks of how at some point she might be up there with him and it makes her feel nauseous. She knows she would be safe, it is abundantly clear that he would never put anyone’s life at risk, aside from his own.

But then her breath hitches as he seems to flail, losing altitude briefly before correcting himself and continuing as if not even phased. When he lands after another set, there is an uproar of cheer from everyone and he swivels around quickly, not aware he had been entertaining the population of the village.

He looks to fire some heated words at a booming Cara and raises his hand almost sheepishly in a wave before getting back to work. Omera shares a laugh with the others in the pond with her and they also return to their harvest to let Din train in peace.

Some two baskets of krill later she lifts her gaze to see Din has disappeared. She cranes her head around looking for him, then stops dead in her searching when she meets an amused glint in Cara’s eyes at the pond edge.

“Break time?” Cara asks, Din’s boy cradled in one arm and her other extended out in a helping hand.

She nods with a smile, feeling her cheeks heat at being caught in her search for Din. She takes her hand and Cara hauls her up onto the bank.

“Thank you,” she says, securing her baskets on the bank and wringing out her skirts.

They make their way over to a couple of overturned crates, grabbing a pouch of water and a parcel of prepacked food to share. Omera has barely sat down and taken a sip of much needed water before Cara sets in with her teasing.

“So, he’s still a virgin? You haven’t corrupted him yet?”

Omera works to keep her shock hidden, resisting the propulsion of water from her mouth as she chokes. She cuts a sharp look to Cara and swallows her mouthful, “Not yet but…”

“But…?” Cara lights up, leaning forward in scandal.

She clears her throat, thinking she probably shouldn’t be discussing this with Cara out of respect for Din’s privacy, but she needed to gush.

“It was enough,” she says carefully, reddening cheeks stretching into a shy smile. “… we were still fully clothed. Well, if you don’t count his shirt being off.”

A knowing grin overtakes Cara’s face as if she just made some connection in her mind, and the look makes her rightfully nervous, “Stars above! Were you… _dry humping_?! What are you, a pair of teenagers?”

“ _Shh_!” she hisses and dives forward on her seat to take a firm hold of Cara’s arm even as she laughs in shock, looking around frantically to make sure no one heard. “And… _yes_ , though I don’t think of it as crudely.”

She releases Cara’s arm from the death-grip and sits back to compose herself after the outburst, picks at her fingers nervously.

“If I’m honest, I’m actually a bit nervous of sleeping with him. The way I react to… it’s _embarrassing_. He probably thinks I’m so desperate.”

Rather than sympathy, she doesn’t know what she expected really, Cara bursts into laughter again.

“Poor Din. _Kriff_! He’s probably freaking out. You two are so cute, I feel like the naughty aunt giving you condoms behind your parents back!”

Omera laughs too, she can see the humour in it all. They were grown adults, but were acting like giddy, lovesick kids, “I’m sorry to always bother you with all the details, it’s just so nice to be able to have girl talk about boys.”

“You're not bothering me. I’ve got to get my thrills somehow.”

They finish their morning break in quiet chuckles, Din’s boy looking thoroughly confused about it all, and Omera doesn’t mention that she saw Din’s face. She wants to, _stars_ , does she want to. To gush about his handsome features, kind eyes, leanly built chest and arms, but that was a line she wasn’t going to cross. As if materialised by their conversation, a tall shadow falls over them and Omera eagerly looks up to greet him.

“Hey,” his low voice rasps and she is reminded of how quiet he can be in his approach despite the heavy armour.

“Good morning,” she returns with a shy smile, all the emotions from last night suddenly rushing to the surface and she wants nothing more than to drag him back into the barn. She scoots over on her crate to give him room to sit at her side, and his boy is catapulting himself out of Cara’s arms to reach his dad.

She watches as he tenderly helps his boy get into a comfortable position, a steady stream of what she assumes is encouragement uttered in his language. His helmet is dipped low and when he straightens up, she sees the visor tip towards her. She gives a smile, picturing his kind eyes and quirked half smile, the way she imagines pink must be pooling high on his cheekbones.

“Alright,” Cara interjects with a smirk evident in her voice. Omera breaks her inspection and looks to her in an apology that Cara waves off. “I’m going to skedaddle. See you two later.”

Both her and Din mimic Cara’s parting, and then it is just them and the child.

She itches to get closer, take his hand, settle her hand on his knee, anything to have more contact with him even though he had settled himself so closely to her on the small crate that they are pressed tightly together anyway.

He clears his throat softly in the quiet of the air and his fingers twitch before he is moving his free hand to where hers are folded in her lap. She instantly unknits her fingers and turns her hand over in offering, her heart in her throat. When his gloved fingers smooth over hers, finding their place between her own, it is as if a weight is lifted from him and his shoulders lose their hard edge.

“Do you have any regrets?” he asks gently on a mere whisper. “About last night?”

“Not one,” she reassures, moving to hold his hand in both of hers. Then before she can think better of it, she lifts his hand to press a tender kiss to the metal guard over the back. She knows he isn’t one for affection when others can see, completely different from when they are alone and he is very affectionate, but he doesn’t seem to mind the kiss, even grips her fingers tighter as if in encouragement. She smiles softly at the thought and gently nudges his hand to her cheek briefly before settling them back into her lap.

“Do you?” she asks, and he shakes his head before she has even finished her sentence.

She grins happily and plays with his fingers, turning his hand over and tracing the long fingers with her own, running a gentle caress over the stitched lines of the leather.

“My people will be here in about a week. They are just picking up some supplies and a few others that have made contact on the way. Even so, there will only be a small group arriving at first,” he explains as if he is asking if that was alright.

“We will help them, Din, tell them to come straight here. With the credits you gave us, we can go into town and get the supplies they’ll need. I’ll take you to the outpost tomorrow, then we can spend the rest of the week getting it set up. Everyone will help. We are just finishing up with this harvest today, then we are all yours.”

“Those credits are for your people–”

“Your people are _our_ people,” she reasons. “Please, let us do this.”

He gives a sigh and moves to nudge his helmet against her cheek, the cool armour tempering her heated face. Her stomach still rolls each time he does it, as if he has kissed her with his lips anyway, and she cups a hand to the cloak at his neck to anchor herself to press her forehead to his visor properly.

“Thank you,” he utters, pressing firmly back into her, not caring who sees.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din and Omera check out the old Imperial outpost, managing to squeeze in some fleeting alone time before a busy week of preparing for the Mandalorians to arrive. And Din offers a very personal gift to the village!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very slight warning for implied "fill in the blanks" bits!

The repulsolift speeder trudges along, considerably less sluggish in the absence of the heavy barrels of spotchka like the other times he has been on it. This time it is only Omera and himself, having left the kid with Cara and the other villagers. After his time away he hated to leave the kid so soon, even if only for half a day. But watching as Omera gazes out at the passing forest, face illuminated in the late morning sun and long hair caught in the light breeze, makes for a good distraction.

He reclines against the side railing, stretches his arms along the top and casts his eyes up at the sparse clouds. He squints against the bright glare of the sun and can almost imagine what its rays must feel like upon his bare face. He longs for its heat, the crispness of the air washing over him, musing his hair and carrying the sounds and smells of home.

But being able to protect his home, don his armour and defend, outweighs any contempt he feels at being unable to.

He feels the speeder shift and he quirks an eye open to watch as Omera settles in across from him, looking very much like she’d like to say something. He keeps his helmet cast up at the sky, gives her time to consider her words without his expectant gaze.

She watches him, lips pursed and forehead creased in thought, then she is straightening herself and collecting her hair into a thick twist over one shoulder. He wonders if that is a nervous habit.

“Din?” she softly calls, and he hums in response, unhitches himself from his lounging position to show she has his full attention. “I wanted to ask what you need from us when your people arrive.”

He frowns, tips his head in question, and she seems to lose her nerve. He stilts the grunt he wants to make, frustrated at himself and his inherent inability to use his words.

“I’m not sure what you mean. You are already doing so much, but I get the feeling that is not what you’re referring to.”

“I mean… with _us_ ,” she utters, waving vaguely between the two of them. “Winta too. Unfortunately, I know I am an open book and I don’t want to cause trouble for you. If you need us to keep our distance, just say the word.”

He realises he has clearly failed in expressing what she means to him. She believed she would be his _aliit_ , but perhaps she didn’t understand how deep that bond went. Did she want to keep it a secret? Did she assume that was what he wanted? The notion makes him even more nauseous, and self-consciousness eats at his heart. His instinct is to protect himself, withdraw from the potential to get hurt, but he is done keeping people at arms-length.

“I won’t be able to keep my distance, I never have been able to,” he confesses, wanting her to have no doubts. “I don’t need anything but for you to be yourself, for everyone to be themselves. My people will see your strength as I have, you have nothing to worry about.”

He only partly believes it himself, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m more concerned about what everyone here will think of _them_. My people, they can be… blunt. And when they feel vulnerable, they will try to be intimidating, show a strong front. I don’t want that to change everyone’s perception of me, especially Winta.”

“I think there is little that could be done to change Winta’s mind about you,” she says with a soft laugh. “You’re her hero.”

“I’m no one’s hero,” he disagrees, voice thick. “But I’ll try live up to it.”

“You’re mine too,” she beams as if he hadn’t said a thing, nudging his outstretched leg with her own.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just gives a huff in humour, returns her nudge with his knee and keeps a firm pressure against her own leg. She looks like she wants to say more, but she never does, just turns to watch their path ahead, a gentle hand settled on his knee.

It isn’t long before the speeder makes a turn and they are travelling down a narrow path where the woods become denser. Omera explains that it is not far now, and he suggests leaving the speeder under the canopy and making the rest of the journey on foot, just in case.

He doubts there is anything to worry about. According to the village the outpost had been abandoned for years, and anything of worth would have been stripped and taken already, but he knew you could never be too careful.

They find a small gap in the trees to park the speeder and he swings down before it has fully come to a stop. She collects his rifle and passes it down to him before jumping down herself, brushing off her skirts and smiling up at him. He knows they are on a mission, should be focused and scoping for threats, but he hesitates for a second with the urge to pull her close.

He takes a deep breath. _‘It’ll keep’,_ he echoes to himself, as she’d told him before. Then he is turning on his heel and is all business.

They keep to the fringe of the woods and he makes sure he remains half a step in front of her. Switching to the thermal tracking in his helmet, he sees there has been no movement along this path recently, and looking into the surrounding woods confirms the same. They approach a bend in the path and Omera assures him that once they round the corner, it is a final straight leg to the outpost.

“Wait here,” he instructs, halting in his steps and grasping her wrist lightly. “Just for a moment, I’ll quickly scope it out.”

She gives a nod in understanding and he drops her wrist to unsling his rifle from his back, disappearing into the undergrowth. He cuts the corner through the forest quickly, staying low and spying the outpost from the cover of the trees. He finds a large boulder at the tree-line to crouch behind, and a quick glance shows what Omera had told him, it was abandoned, clearly even long before the fall of the Empire.

The pale grey-green buildings rise up from the surrounding barbed wire fencing, the grounds overgrown as nature claims back what was once its own. One side butts up to a steep cliff-face and the surrounding woods somehow manage to swallow up the complex in its entirety. He doubts it would even be noticed from overhead.

He eases his rifle over the boulder and peers down the scope to get a better look. The gate is unhinged, lying on its side, and the rest of the fence isn’t in much better shape, wiring loose and torn down in places. Tall spotlights litter the grounds, but the bulbs have been blown out and loose circuitry can be seen coming from camera towers. There is no movement aside from the gentle sway of overgrown grass and weeds.

Once satisfied that he has scrutinised every angle and possibility and deemed it safe, he retreats back to where he left Omera and they continue their advance, though he is still careful to ensure he remains between her and the destination, sticking close to the forest’s edge.

There is a collection of buildings, all connected by covered walkways, and a comparatively large warehouse at the back. From the outside, it all looks like a dump, but the interior of the buildings is in relatively good shape. It has obviously been scavenged, monitors and tech ripped from the walls and command station, but they didn’t need all that anyway.

He identifies what he assumes to be the commons and mess hall; tables and chairs scattered haphazardly throughout, and the kitchen overturned with its contents strewn around. A separate building holds the barracks and what may have been the training facilities in its day. The large warehouse had clearly been a garage, though the Imps had pulled all their supplies before abandoning it and it was now an empty void with very minimal maintenance equipment. What catches his attention is the two small rooms off to the side of the garage, one for storage judging by the shelving units and crates, and the other an armoury. A stone-cold furnace takes up most of the space, covered in ash and debris, but he imagines it wouldn’t take too much to get it functioning again, especially with the right know-how. Benches line the walls with various tools and equipment. He wonders why they hadn’t been taken too, by the Imps or by whoever looted this place afterwards, but he figures there wouldn’t really be much use for those items in the wrong hands.

He takes it all in in silence, pacing the grounds and inspecting every inch of the compound. And he feels his heart pounding under his chest plate, his mind picturing his people walking these halls, training and doing drills, the foundlings collected in the garage and being taught to walk the life of a Mandalorian.

“So,” Omera asks softly, hands clasped behind her back and gazing around them. “What do you think?”

“This is the Way,” he croaks, because it was. He’d never thought what they had on Nevarro was great by any means, but it had been adequate. But this could be their home, not just a go between while they figured something else out. He thought he might have had misgivings about it being an old Imperial base, but there was so little of the Empire’s existence left here that it would be easy to ignore, to replace with a new presence.

She nods eagerly, as if his acceptance has lifted a heavy weight from her shoulders, “There’s something else I want to show you.”

He tries to wrap his head around the fact that there was more, and follows as she leads the way to the edge of the grounds, by the cliff, and he sees it isn’t a cliff after all. The dark rock cuts away into a large open cave, his helmet’s vision able to peer through the darkness and see into its depths where it breaks off into a series of tunnels.

“I don’t know if this is anything like what you had at your old home, but I thought it might bring comfort to know there is more shelter if the base doesn’t work out.”

“It’s perfect,” he murmurs, stepping into the entrance and running a hand over the rough cave walls. “Thank you for showing me this.”

She offers a kind smile but does not say anything more, just stands back and allows him to roam the area. He was never really one to get excited, about anything, but he finds himself eager for his people to arrive, this place will be perfect. He has no doubt that they will settle in well at the outpost, but the caves and surrounding woods make it easy to defend if they should ever need to, as well as giving them room to expand.

He is already thinking about the spare scramblers from Nevarro, the village had needed only a few, and the others could be installed here. He wonders if he could rig the cameras to work again, any of the other circuitry. He would have to check with Cara, she’d managed to fix the com-links for Omera so maybe her skills extended beyond that too. There was much to reflect on, and he thinks that it will probably be keeping him up tonight as he plays through it all in his mind.

When he is finally done, he turns back to Omera to find her watching him with a strange look on her face. She instantly covers it with a smile and cocks her head to the side, “All done?”

“Hmm,” he replies, reaches a hand to grip her fingers gently and butt his helmet softly into her temple. He doesn’t know what that look had been on her face, perhaps thoughtful, but certainly not bad, and he pushes it to the back of his mind as they walk back through the compound.

They make their way to where they’d left the speeder and his mind is still reeling at all the possibilities, that this could _work_ , his people could have a home here.

Because either way he is not leaving again. Not Sorgan and not Omera.

“I’ve been wondering about your Creed,” Omera suddenly says, drawing his attention instantly and he realises she has been distracted for some time, and he was an idiot for not picking up on it sooner. But now that she has his gaze, she continues, and he vows to answer everything she asks of him.

“It’s more about people not seeing your face, rather than wearing the helmet?” she asks softly, and he tilts his head at her to continue. “What I mean is… that first night you took your helmet off with me, and it was pitch black. Or the other times we’ve kissed and I kept my eyes shut. But when you showed me your face, that was when I’d be a part of your clan?”

He hesitates, hand twitching at the side arm on his hip and he looks down at his feet as they walk. In theory answering all her questions was easy, but a part of his heart is still guarded and he has to fight the knee-jerk reaction to change subjects, or simply remain silent.

“Actually, no,” he finally manages, bringing them to a halt and turning to face her. “A Mandalorian’s helmet cannot be removed in front of another living being unless they are bonded, are _aliit_.”

“But…” confusion knits her brows and her eyes flit around his visor.

He lets off a breath and clears his throat, “The moment I decided to take my helmet off that night when we were drinking, was when I’d decided you were my clan. Not showing you my face was…”

He was doing a truly terrible job at this, hates the way she looks so confused, like maybe she’d misunderstood his actions. He needs her to have no doubts, so he takes her hands gently and holds them together in his. A tender softness takes over her features as she smiles, and then he brings her hands up to his shoulders, encourages them around his neck and skims his own to hold her waist.

“I was nervous for you to see my face in case you’d built me up to something that I couldn't live up to. Which I’m fairly certain is the case anyway, but I couldn’t hold off anymore. I wanted to see you… feel you, without this barrier.”

She smiles shyly, dipping her face down out of his gaze briefly before stepping up onto her toes and placing a gentle kiss to the cheek of his helmet, “I did build you up, but the reality blew even that out of the water.”

His stomach flips at her confession, and he tilts his head as if to say _‘sure’_ as she settles back down onto her heels. He misses her proximity and is instantly tugging her closer. He knows they are tiptoeing around the obvious, around marriage, and a part of him wishes she would ask outright about where to from here, so he didn’t have a choice. But she was much to kind to ever push him, and he knows any further movement in that direction will have to come solely from him.

“I wanted you to see my face first, but if I’m honest, I don’t know what I would have done if you rejected me.”

And now she throws the same disbelieving head tilt back at him. The mirth fades from her face and she slides her hands up to hold his helmet, closes her eyes and leans in for a gentle _kov’nyn_.

“You knew that was never a possibility.”

Like every other time she initiates the Mandalorian custom, he turns into a pining mess and cannot get close enough, his mind throwing snapshots of last night behind his closed eyelids. His strive to get closer to her has her backed up against a large tree trunk and him fumbling to hold up his own weight on shaking knees.

He presses his helmet more firmly into her, worried only for a second that the pressure might be too much before she is twisting the fingers of one hand into his cloak at the back of his neck, and the other is urging his helmet closer still.

The press of her body against his has a small hiss escaping between his teeth, and her panting breaths leave soft blurs of fog on his visor.

He may not be experienced in all this, but even he knew where this was leading, and he wanted the helmet _off_.

…

_[Link to "fill in the blanks" chapter two!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876319/chapters/61241473#workskin) _

…

A decent amount of time has passed by the time they are making their way back to the speeder for their second attempt at returning to the village. Omera’s hand is a constant pressure in his own, fingers knitted together and a lazy swing of their arms as they stroll unhurriedly.

He tips his helmet to watch her, the sun turning her dark eyes a warm amber, sharp cheekbones coloured prettily. She looks content, and he hopes he can keep that look on her face for the rest of their lives. There is a constant warmth seated deep within himself whenever he is around her, and the closer he gets only succeeds to reinforce it.

She turns her eyes to him when she senses his gaze, the shy smile she gives is almost painful in its beauty. He feels his own face redden under the helmet, and it feels so ridiculous to be shy around her now when considering the last hour. His neck still tingles, shocks racking his body with how his cloak clings to where she’d had her lips, and he feels a satisfied thump in his heart to see the very slight discolouration on the skin at the edge of her collar too.

He is struck again with how she was so far above him, so far above _anyone_. He likes to think he never intended for this to happen, that he truly only returned here for the kid to have his friends back. He also likes to think that he has really considered doing the right thing, cutting his ties and not tainting this place, these people, anymore than he already has. But he hasn’t, for he knows that is just as impossible as it had been to leave the kid with the Imp.

He figures he must surely be running out of good luck, but he will ride this wave for as long as he can, and he just needs it to hold out long enough for him to make Omera his properly. 

The speeder comes into view, and he is reminded that he has no shortage of complexities to be dealing with at the moment. His people, for one, needed to take precedence over his own needs, and so long as Omera remained happy, he would focus on settling his people.

The ride back into town passes quickly, Omera dozing on his shoulder as they both recline back against the railing. He has adjusted his cloak to give her a soft cushion against the beskar and she looks as if she could fall asleep right there.

He runs through all the modifications in his mind, scheduling his days and tasks that need to be done before the others arrive. But before that, he would go into the town with Omera to trade. He hadn’t missed that it was end of harvest and he wouldn’t let his own needs come before those of the village. Besides, it would give him the chance to stock up on a few things for the Mandalorians to get them started too.

He gazes down at Omera as a particularly abrupt gust in the breeze lifts a thick tendril of her hair over her face and his chest plate. Her hair is loose from its normal braids, softly kinked as it hangs in heavy waves. Although he likes that she normally wears it off her face, giving him a clear view of her face at all times, he can’t deny that she looks breath-taking like this, how he imagines she would look upon waking in the morning.

He collects the wayward stand and brushes it back over her far shoulder as she lifts a lazy hand to help him.

“Sorry,” she sighs, a soft crease in her forehead. She doesn’t open her eyes, tucks her face into him and continues muffled into his cloak. “There’s too much of it.”

“It’s beautiful,” he disagrees, stroking his gloved fingers along the shining lengths from her parting to behind her ear.

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” she corrects with a smug smile on her face and he once again thinks she was born to speak his language.

He hums, tipping his helmet to rest on top of her head, “ _Mesh’la_.”

She snuggles in and it is not long before he hears her breathing even out in sleep, soft exhales verging on quiet snores. He lets her rest, his mind surely can’t, but makes sure to wake her when they near the village so that she can compose herself.

It is late afternoon when they arrive back at the village and everyone is still hard at work. Once helping Omera down, he makes a bee-line for where he can see the children playing, knowing the kid will be amongst them. When they see him approaching, they all run to eagerly meet him halfway, Winta at the front of them all with _ad’ika_ in her arms. By now a few of the close by farmers have also seen their return and offer greetings of their own.

And he is stumped that he finds himself disheartened when they call him ‘Mandalorian’. They always have, because what else do they have to call him? But they too have slowly edged at his beskar to the soul underneath, and he finds he wants to be recognised beyond his culture.

Omera steps up behind him, drawing him from his thoughts and brushing a lingering hand on his back as she passes. She hugs her daughter tightly before ushering all the kids back into the village. Winta remains in place, and he sees Omera’s furrowed brow as she glances around looking for her, worry instantly fading from her features when she sees her daughter safe at his side. She gives a soft smile and is then disappearing into the hall to help prepare dinner.

“I’ve never been to the outpost, was it cool?” Winta asks excitedly as they wander into the village too.

“It’s not very exciting,” he tells her, not wanting her to think she is missing out. “But it will suit my people very well, I’m sure.”

“Will you live there then? You won’t stay here?” she asks quietly, looking down at her feet and looking like she could trip over her bottom lip with how much it was pouted. He would find it funny if she didn’t look so dejected. Then suddenly her shoulders go rigid and she looks up into his visor with what looks like a forced smile. “It’s okay if you do.”

“I’m not sure,” he replies, perplexed at her sudden mood change. He wasn’t sure, it would all depend on what happened in the coming days, what the Mandalorians thought of his choice to make Omera his, and what that meant for his Creed. “But I wanted to ask you something. I know we said we would keep my name a secret, but I think it’s time I told everyone. Would that be okay with you?”

He knows he doesn’t really need her permission, but she’d seemed so excited at the prospect of it being a secret that he didn’t want to upset her or make her feel like he didn’t care. He watches as she seems to contemplate it for a moment.

“Okay!” she beams brightly at him, then snaps her eyes to the kid in his arms. “Does that mean we can call him what you do? What is it again?”

“ _Ad’ika_.”

She mimics it as best she can, and he is impressed that she gets the pronunciation mostly right, considering how she always managed to butcher ‘Mandalorian’.

…

While they had scoped out the outpost, the farmers had worked tirelessly to finish off the harvest so they could help out as much as possible, and their efforts were not lost on Din. He insisted on helping them sell their goods before accepting any help on clearing the outpost, so he and Omera went into town on the speeder the next day. Garren was as chatty as ever, and while Din felt the familiar stirrings of jealously, it was nothing like he had known in the past. Most likely due to the constant weight of Omera’s touch on his hand, his arm, his shoulder, so much so that Garren seemed to take the hint and keep his flirting to a minimum.

They stopped by a few other stalls, collecting first aid supplies, lanterns, blankets, long-life food, whatever he thought would help settle the Mandalorians initially if they came without anything of their own. And he had to watch Omera, for she was constantly trying to buy the supplies with the pouch of credits he had gifted the village, giving vague excuses that the village also needed such items. But he saw right through her and would gently tuck the credits back into her palm with a huffed laugh each time. It felt so natural, like they were a true couple, in all senses, and were arguing over who paid for what on a date. Leagues away from buying essentials for his people that had been driven from their home and had nowhere else to turn.

Once the harvest was settled, the village threw themselves into getting the outpost ready, leaving only a handful of villagers behind to care for the children and necessary upkeep of the farm. They would begin early, making multiple trips with the speeder to transport everyone to help as well as the gathered supplies. He caught Omera speaking with Cara quietly at times, her face reddened and alight with whatever she was saying. His stomach coiled in knots at the clear teasing on Cara’s part, he could only imagine what they were talking about. It’s not that he really minds, but it makes him realise that perhaps Cara hadn’t been one sided in all this after all.

They clear out the commons and mess hall, straightening the tables and benches and stocking the kitchen area with non-perishables. The barracks are stripped and swept, windows and doors repaired. Din personally cleaned out the armoury, figuring he would do as much as he could to get it back in working order just short of actually firing up the furnace.

The overgrowth and broken fence were left for the time being, so that from the outside it still looked abandoned while the Mandalorians worked on building their numbers again. The cameras were a loss, but the floodlights had potential if the circuitry was fixed. He and Cara were confident they would be able to salvage it, but that would come later when the Mandalorians no longer had to hide in shadows.

They installed the scramblers, using excess wiring from the old camera system to boost the signal. Nevarro had needed so many because of its scrawling network of sewers, but because the village and outpost were compact and in one open domain, they could do with much less.

The wiring for electricity throughout the compound was surprisingly still intact and only required some minor tweaking from the generators to get it humming with life, much like the water mains that must have come from a deep underground spring. The pipes spluttered and moaned with disuse, but they had water and would make do.

The farmers donated their own belongings; bedding, blankets and clothing as well as cutlery and crockery for the mess hall. Caben had even looked sheepish as he’d shown Din the basket of toys they’d collected, and Din knew why he hesitated, but he assured him that they were still kids at the end of the day. They stacked it all neatly in the storage room in the warehouse with a large barrel of spotchka.

Lanterns were strung up in the cave, running through a central control at the entrance so they could all be turned on and off with a single command.

Lastly, they boarded all the windows and installed heavy bolts to the doors to protect all their hard work while they awaited the Mandalorians’ arrival. And at the end of each day Din would remain behind for a couple of hours, watching carefully from the mouth of the cave to see if their work in the area had encouraged any unwanted attention. But there was never a soul beyond the creatures of the forest and the ticking of insects.

The days were long, and by the time he returned to the village in the evening, everyone was exhausted and ready for bed, only just managing to eat the evening meal before sleep consumed them. It was a trying week, one in which he had barely had any time with Omera due to the demands of the work needing to be done. He’d often catch her eye, her shy smile, from across the way. Or they’d manage a quick touch to the arm in passing, and sometimes even a fleeting _kov’nyn._ None of it helped ease the tension he’d felt building since that day in the forest, if anything it made it worse, his body yearning to be near her again.

But he’d also just missed the simple life of the krill farm, where he could spend the evenings around the fire, in the barn with the kid, or with Omera in his arms. It made him wish he’d decided on his future with her sooner, there was so much time they had lost while he was trying to figure out his place in the galaxy, when it had been right in front of him the whole time since he’d landed here.

They finally finish with the necessities, there was surely more to be done, but it could be chipped away at slowly once the others had arrived.

The farmers returned to their old routines, never even missing a beat to throw themselves back into the chores of a krill farm the very next day. It was halfway through that day, while he was helping with a few repairs to their farming droids, that he received a com from his people. They were a day out, and he sent them the coordinates for where his ship was settled. The village had cheered to his impending reunion with his people, and they looked just as excited to welcome them to Sorgan.

And amongst it all, he slowly started telling people his name.

He didn’t want to outright make a big thing of it, but when someone would call him over or refer to him as the ‘Mandalorian’, he would offer his name. As the days passed, it felt freeing to be called his name rather than referred to by his culture. The title had never bothered him before, but the way the villagers lit up with the knowledge of something personal to him, it was the least he could give them after all they continued to give him.

Everyone spends the next day watching the sky, continuing with their normal routine but casting their eyes up every so often. As the sun reaches the midpoint in the sky, then begins to descend again, he starts to worry as he has heard nothing from the Mandalorians. But just when he is thinking he should try make contact, a soft humming overhead is heard before a small ship appears and causes an excited buzz around the ponds.

He finds Omera’s eyes across the soft rippling waters, and she sends a warm smile as she jerks her chin in the direction of his ship, urging him on. He tips his head to her, scoops up the kid and makes his way out the main road of the village. He is guided by carved trees through the forest, though he barely needs them by this point, and into the clearing just as the ship is engaging its landing gear and touching down.

The kid warbles in anticipation in his arms, looking between Din and the ship that is dwarfed beside the Razor Crest. His ship wasn’t big by any means, or in particularly good shape, but it far outdid the scrap the Mandalorians must have only just managed to fly. The ship groans in protest as the hanger opens and a ramp extends down, revealing five armoured figures, and hiding behind their forms, he spies the nervous faces of three children.

They must be no older than Winta, yet to swear the Creed, but it wouldn’t be too many years before they did. He’d spent so long seeing kids… just be _kids_. He is reminded that he had also been made to grow up too soon.

And thinking about that makes his stomach churn in a way it never had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandos in next chapter, I promise! Preparing for their arrival took longer than I anticipated. Ahh, sorry!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're finally here!

They look wary, understandably so, as they stare across the open meadow from the ship to where Din stands at the edge of the clearing. The kid in his arms has instantly sobered, ears flattening against his head and uttering a muted garble.

They are cast in the shadows of their ship’s hull, but when a figure steps forward, he recognises the golden horned helmet instantly. He’d received a generic com from his people, unidentifiable and ambiguous as to who had been rounded up and made contact, but he had suspected she would be among the group. They had mentioned there were three of them and a child, so obviously they had picked up a few more on the way.

He begins towards their position as she makes her way down the ramp, as poised and regal as ever, sending an encouraging nod to the those behind her. And that is when he is able to identify the others. Following directly behind her is the distinctive hulking of blue armour, and Din finds himself relieved to see the oaf had made it out alive. He knows neither of them would ever admit it, but despite all their rough-housing, they would go to battle for each other. And had in the past.

But his chest tightens as he notices the way Paz leans against the much smaller Mandalorian at his side. He’s been injured, pretty badly too judging by the way his arm is thrown around the other’s shoulders, looking very much like he doesn’t want to accept the help but cannot manage on his own.

The teen is determined though and eases him down the ramp slowly. Lucian had only sworn the Creed a few standard years prior, hadn’t seen much action since that time as the Covert remained hidden, but the dings to his armour suggest he has had a rough time since Nevarro.

He recognises the twins sticking close to his side, Ryelle and Kyan, and doesn’t miss that their parents are nowhere to be seen. Too young to have armour, though they look like they could have used it as their clothing is tattered, hair matted with what he hopes is only caked mud. Eyes glassy and distant, and he fears what this band of survivors has been through.

Taking up the rear is Illian and Ava, with their young daughter Willa, and thankfully they at least look to have fared better.

“Your son has yet to grow,” the Armourer observes, drawing Din’s attention back to her as she steps up to him.

“Yes,” he agrees, looking down into the little one’s face when he chirps up at him. “Though his powers have.”

She makes a thoughtful sound, then sees how his gaze has shifted to her injured companion, “He sustained his injuries a few days ago, but we haven’t had the right supplies to treat him properly.”

“He got hurt defending me. Defending _us_ ,” Lucian reports, gesturing to the twins, clearly distraught. “It had just been the three of us since their parents… I tried to help…”

“It’s alright, kid,” Paz grunts, clapping his hand to the back of Lucian’s neck under the edge of his helmet and giving a firm shake before standing on his own. “You did good.”

“You’re safe here. We all are. There are supplies in the village, they will help us,” Din explains, trying to keep his tone neutral and disinterested.

They all nod in response and he sees the way they look to the kid, finally able to see what had caused their lives to be turned upside down. But he senses no contempt, merely curiosity.

“Lead the way then, runt,” the bulky Mandalorian orders, but the nickname causes comfort rather than offense. His people were worse for wear, but alive and clearly not doing too badly if still able to throw the odd insult. Besides, everyone was a runt compared to the heavy infantryman.

“Thank you,” Ava pipes in quickly before swiveling her helmet to Paz, the scowl she sends evident even through the visor, and she clutches her daughter tightly in front of her.

He just sees Paz wave her off placatingly before he is turning and leading them back to the village. He knows the path well, not needing the markings on the trees, but notices in his periphery that the Armourer’s gaze seems to linger on those particular trees longer than any other, a perceptive tilt to her helmet. He can’t be sure that she has taken notice of course, perhaps he is just hyper-aware of the evidence of his ties to this place, but she had never missed much in the past. He tries to push it to the back of his mind, he no doubt has a lot to discuss with her later anyway.

As they make their way through the woods they fill him in.

The couple and their daughter had returned to Nevarro after news spread of the Imps being overthrown, and being unable to make contact any other way, they figured it was their best bet. They saw the message the Armourer had left in the old base before she’d departed and were able to join up once the coms were functional again. Around the same time, Lucian and the twins were trapped in and hounded by troopers, but managed to send a distress signal out. Paz had been the closest, though there hadn’t been time to wait for back up so he’d had to go in alone. Din has the sense to not tease him about Imperial scum getting the better of him and injuring him so. He knows how hard it can be to defeat even the lowliest of opponents when you are consciously trying to defend. But he’d managed and they’d all gathered to make their way to Sorgan. Coms were flooding in from all corners of the galaxy with pockets of survivors, but the substandard ship just barely got them here and meant they were unable to do more than send co-ordinates and a message of hope.

“We were not followed,” the Armourer assures when she must see Din’s unease. “This system is far beyond the regular circuits anyway.”

“That’s what I thought, but a hunter still found his way here, after the kid,” he says, holding said kid the slightest bit closer when a little hand tucks into the top of his chest plate as if sensing turmoil in his father. “This village… there is a peace here that I don’t want to destroy.”

Paz scoffs through his laboured breaths behind him, “Peace doesn’t exist anymore–”

“–it does here,” he remains firm, glancing up to the sky and seeing the sun making its’ descend. “It is too late to travel to the outpost today; we will stay with the village tonight and leave in the morning. I’ve set up the tech here and at the new base, we are still ghosts.”

No one outright says it, but Din can feel the shift in the atmosphere around them, everyone is relieved to be able to settle soon and not have further travel for the remainder of the day.

A few more minutes of walking and the sounds of the village are carried on the breeze; kids laughing, stacking of baskets, farmers calling final orders of their working day. Din halts at the brush, the other Mandalorians pausing too and looking to him in question.

“It’s just through here. They’ve worked so hard to make this a home for us, their strength and resilience is unparalleled,” he explains, stomach churning with unease at the thought of them meeting. Both his people. The Armourer looks to him patiently, tipping her head for him to get out whatever it is he wants to say, so he looks to Paz pointedly. “So be nice.”

“Always am, _vod_ ,” he retorts, sauntering forward as sturdily as his injuries will allow, Lucian scrambling after him to offer assistance. Paz brushes him off, and Din knows he wants to enter the village holding himself up entirely, unwilling to show any sign of weakness.

Sighing, he follows after the mismatched band of Mandalorians, praying that his unease is not warranted.

* * *

Omera is the first to see them materialise at the edge of the forest by the main road, probably because she’d been casting her eyes up there every other minute. The sight of Din’s armour had always made her pause for a moment to appreciate its oddity on a planet such as Sorgan, and seeing the others now only increased that tenfold. They were a small group from what she can tell at this distance, and her heart warms to think she can just make out the small forms of children, without armour.

She secures the last of her baskets down for the night and straightens, drying her hands nervously on her dress. Glancing around she sees the other farmers are still occupied and haven’t noticed their visitors.

She wonders what to do. Should she go out to meet them? Wait for them to come to her? She is so overly conscious of not stepping on anyone’s toes or putting them on edge that she herself is a nervous wreck. Din had said to just be herself, so she takes a deep breath and will do just that.

“They’re here,” she calls softly to those closest to her, watching as their head’s snap up to watch the approach with clear intrigue. Winta is among the children frolicking around and they too skid to a stop to look eagerly to Din’s people.

“Maybe you should go meet them first, Omera,” Pippa says, rounding the children up to contain their excitement. Their mood is infectious, brimming with energy at meeting Din’s people. The village, and Din himself, had tried to instill that the other Mandalorians were somewhat different from him, but that did little to dampen their spirits.

She gives a nod and then slowly makes her way to the front of the village with measured paces, watching Din’s body language closely to try catch any sign that she should back down. They are still a way off, but she can see him clearly, he looks for the most part relaxed as he leads the group.

When she passes the last krill pond, she waits patiently at its edge for the group to close the last distance between them. At Din’s side walks a woman, her painted armour significantly less heavy than his, though no less imposing. The way she carries herself demands authority, though Omera can sense a gentleness that comes from her too. She is immaculate, armour in pristine condition but Omera somehow knows that isn’t from disuse.

A small girl with wild blonde hair, perhaps a year or two younger than Winta, walks tucked closely between two armoured adults. The smaller of the two wears armour the colour of the cosmos, a deep hue somewhere between midnight and dusk. The other’s is a dark grey with accents of forest green on the edging.

She feels her head tip to the side in thought, she’d never considered that their armour would be painted, she had just assumed it would be the same shining lustre as Din’s. Casting her eyes back, she takes in the last of their visitors and feels her heart ache at the sight.

A young boy and girl, older than the first, but still children nonetheless, are practically glued at the hip, faces emotionless aside from the sceptical eye in which they glance around. A look so guarded didn’t belong on faces so young, and she feels the mother in her wanting to rush to them, console them from what ever atrocity they have faced. She has to physically bite the inside of her cheek to ground herself, remind her of her place and remain rooted to the spot.

They stick close to the side of another armoured figure who walks a protective step a head of them, arm extending to shield them half behind dull red armour. Paint chipped and streaked with mud, she suspects this Mandalorian has yet to reach adulthood judging by their lanky frame. But that could also be due to the towering blue Mandalorian she sees to the side of them, dwarfing the entire group by a long shot. He is ominous and broad, only partially lent to the armour, she is sure.

But he is also injured.

She can see he is making a big effort to hide that fact, but the tell-tale limp and clenched fists give him away. The lanky one sends fleeting glances his way, looking as if they are itching to step up and assist. She wonders what injuries could possibly take down such a huge man.

Again, she feels the mother and protector in her wanting to offer her own assistance, feet shifting uncomfortably in the loose dirt under her with the restraint to not go to them. She remembers Din’s words, about his people trying to be intimidating and show a strong front when feeling vulnerable, and she knows that is exactly what is happening now.

They are barely a stone’s throw away, and she searches Din’s visor for guidance. He gives her a subtle tip of his helmet and slows his pace as he angles towards his companions. They come to a stop and she feels their piercing eyes from behind the visors as well as the shy inquisition of the unarmoured children. Din uses the brief pause to step to her side, closer than what she would consider normal for regular acquaintances, and his proximity makes her smile shyly at him. She wonders if he is aware of how this must look, and entertains the idea that, yes, he knew exactly how it would look and he did it precisely for that reason.

When she finally remembers that they are not alone, she snaps her eyes back to his people, specifically the golden helmeted Mandalorian that seemed to be the front for the group. Din was comparatively easy to read, had been since the day she met him, but these others were impassive. Omera found Din’s head tilts endearing, but on this Mandalorian, it was stripping, all-seeing. It is as if she knows exactly what is running through Omera’s mind, knows the intimacies of whatever this was between her and Din. She feels the hair stand up on end at the back of her neck thinking of the conclusions she must be drawing. She decides to worry about that later, so she gathers her breath and musters the warmest, most welcoming smile she can possibly offer to a tragically disbanded people.

“Hello,” she greets gently, running clammy hands down the sides of her thighs absently. It does little to help, for her skirts are drenched from the ponds anyway, and she is suddenly self-conscious of her well-worn dress. “Welcome to our home.”

Her voice floats between them, and she makes eye contact with each of their visors in the silence that follows as they give curt nods.

When her eyes reach the towering blue Mandalorian at the back, he sweeps his gaze around at his companions then gives a shrug, “Hey.”

And it is as if it breaks the tension entirely, his voice deep like Din’s, though not as smooth, and she breathes a laugh through her smile at the casual tone Din never quite manages. She sees the two children that had been at the back of the group nudge their way forward, peering out from behind the armoured figures to look down into the village nervously.

She takes a careful step forward, slowly, and crouches down to their height a couple of feet away. They take in the movement with widened eyes and she feels her own burning at the trauma she sees there.

“It’s alright to be scared,” she whispers softly, as if speaking to a spooked animal. “You’re safe here. My name is Omera, and I have a daughter called Winta. She is probably just a little younger than you. And there are lots of other kids here too.”

She is pleased to see they don’t cower away, they even look a little more settled, and she is relieved to know that whatever had happened hadn’t damaged them entirely. She sends another soft smile and stands back to her full height.

“Do you want to come see everyone?” she asks uncertainly, looking to Din for any sign that she is overstepping, and finds none. “We’re preparing a meal for you.”

“That is very kind of you,” the female Mandalorian offers with a nod, and Omera feels her face splitting in two with her wide smile as she gestures for them to follow her.

She leads them back into the centre of the village, everyone packing away their work for the day as the sun sinks lower behind the trees. They keep their distance out of respect, though there is no shortage of friendly waves and passing greetings that the Mandalorians return somewhat stilted. They were like Din in at least that regard, unused to the decency of outsiders, but appreciative of it nonetheless.

“Will you go tonight?” she asks Din at her side, casting her eyes to the dimming sky with a sceptical gaze.

“Tomorrow. I think that would be best. They’ve travelled a lot in the past few days,” he replies, adjusting his son in his arms and casting a quick look behind him before continuing in a low voice. “One of them is hurt.”

She hums lowly in agreement, “We have the bacta. I’m not sure what his injuries are, but he should use it if it is suitable. Rest up and heal tonight, then head off tomorrow.”

He nods in agreement and her stomach sinks. If Din was not opposed to using the bacta, like he had been so many other times he’d been injured himself, this Mandalorian must be hiding a greater injury than she’d thought.

But she also wonders what it means for them. They hadn’t discussed it, they’d been so busy, and she’d gotten so used to his presence in the barn that she hadn’t really considered the possibility that he wouldn’t be there any longer. It made sense for him to be with his people, move to the outpost with them, but _she_ was also his people, right?

He’s got enough on his plate at the moment without having to deal with her clinginess too, so she packs it away, deep in her heart so that it cannot influence his decision, and soldiers on like she isn’t breaking.

They round the corner of the krill shed and are met with a horde of impatient children, eyes widening in awe at the armoured group behind her and grinning at the sight of other kids. Winta comes skirting through the throng of children, bounding straight up to Din with a beaming smile.

Omera stomach flutters with nerves, watching from the corner of her eye as the other Mandalorian’s take in the exchange with curiosity. She’d told Winta that Din had said to be themselves, that they didn’t have to keep their distance, but she’d also told her daughter that Din would need space to accommodate his people, something both her and Winta had to respect. So, she supposes her daughter did get the message, for she at least wasn’t tugging him into a tight hug as she’s been known to do on occasion.

“These are my people,” he tells Winta, stepping to the side so she can glance past him at the others. She can hear the hesitance in his voice, he’d told her he was worried that Winta’s view of him might change with seeing his people, and she reaches to squeeze his elbow in comfort before she can think better of it. She barely makes contact before she remembers herself and pulls her arm back, though he seems completely unbothered by it, merely allows her hand to drop but steps up closer to her side anyway.

Winta’s eyes take in their visitors as if starstruck, scrutinising over their armour and the sheer mass of them, particularly the large one in the back. Pink colours her cheeks as she gets over her gawking and she retreats into the safety of Omera’s arms.

“This is your one?” the gold Mandalorian asks quizzically, to which Omera nods fondly down at her now very shy daughter. “She looks just like you.”

“My winter miracle,” she smiles, pressing a quick kiss to her crown and releasing the squirming girl. She reaches to collect Din’s boy whose green face beams at her in affection.

Omera can see the little blonde girl that belongs to the couple inching forward, looking very much like she’d like to join in with the other kids. The quiet ones in the back too. The purple Mandalorian, likely the girl’s mother, urges her on with a gentle shove and a low murmur in their language.

Winta struts confidently over to the girl and cradles Din’s boy closely to her chest, gives a shy smile to the other girl.

“We call him…,” Winta begins, brow furrowed as her mouth works the unfamiliar word. “In your language. I don’t want to mess it up… _ad’ika_?”

“ _Ad’ika_?” the girl confirms, her small voice husky, and she gives a soft giggle as she strokes a large ear, the child chirping happily.

Winta begins to lead the girl back to the rest of the village children and sends an open smile to the other two who have yet to move. Omera sees their hesitance and smiles kindly.

“Shall we get you cleaned up, into some new clothes, then you can join the others?” she says softly, careful to direct her question to the other adults so as not to cause offense.

They nod quickly, quicker than any action she’s seen them do in the ten minutes since she’d met them, and when none of the adults seem to object, she ushers them forward as Winta and the other girl get swallowed up in the excitement and chattering of the village children.

They part ways, Din taking the rest of the Mandalorians into the barn to settle them, and she goes to her hut with the two children to sort them out, retrieving a bucket from the well as she goes. For children than seemed so shattered and shell-shocked, they seem at peace with her, following her without question, though they don’t make any other sound either, so it’s not that surprising.

She helps them clean the mud from their hair and face, combing it out and offering soft words of encouragement despite their silence. They are timid, flinching slightly at first contact but eventually easing up and giving quick half smiles. She manages to find a spare outfit of Winta’s to fit the girl and guides her into the bedroom so she can change in privacy.

She is just helping the boy with a particularly stubborn matted lock of hair when there is soft footsteps at the entrance.

“Knock, knock,” Pippa calls, and the boy goes rigid. Omera soothes him with a soft hush and calming pat to his back as she watches Pippa emerge from outside. “Din said you might need some clothes for him, these were a bit big for Teg, so might fit?”

She thanks her softly, both woman sharing a heart-breaking look at what these children must have been through, and then Pippa is backing out gently so as not to startle him more. At that moment, the girl peeks her head around the corner before joining them, adorned in one of Winta’s dresses and leggings.

“Much better, hmm?” Omera smiles and the girl nods shyly in agreement.

She ushers the boy to get changed too and soon the two of them are looking just like the other village children, significantly less glum with the dirt scrubbed from their faces. She walks them out to meet the other kids and join in before she ventures into the hall to help with the final preparations for dinner. A quick glance around shows Din is nowhere to be seen, clearly still settling his people in the barn.

She figures they will all sleep in there. She considers offering up her own hut, though they might feel more comfortable together anyway, but there was no harm in asking. She’d have to check with Din, and when it came time to eat, could they all eat together in the barn, see each other’s faces? Or would they need separate huts to enjoy their meal?

There was still so much she did not know of their culture, despite her best efforts to understand it, and she was deathly cautious of causing offence. And the selfish part of her, horrified to even be considering it when there were much bigger concerns, was wondering if they approved of her, thought her good enough for one of their own.

* * *

It had gone well, he thought, his people meeting the village. Omera had been as friendly as he’d known she’d be and seeing her with the twins had stirred something deep in his chest that the kid was starting to bring out. She’d been respectfully distant from him, which he assured her she didn’t need to be, and he’d made a point of closing that distance in front of the other Mandalorians to prove it to the both of them.

He leads his people into the barn to show them where they will settle for the night, as he tries to think of a way to get Paz to accept some help, or at least acknowledge that his injuries need attention. It would be a cramped fit for sure, but it was safe, and they were together, something he’d thought his people would never know again.

He sees the Armourer slowly take in the barn, gaze sweeping his belongings, pausing for longer on certain aspects. The teal blankets piled in the crib, the kid’s toy, a withered chain of flowers hanging over the railing. She cocks her helmet at the swaying charm hanging from the rafters and Din feels his stomach knot with nerves.

And then Omera is knocking gently at the entrance, purposefully heavy footfalls on the porch that he has come to recognise instantly, “I just came to say we will bring over some extra bedding for you, and offer my home. We will stay with another family tonight so you can go between here and my hut as you please. Our medical supplies are all there so please help yourselves to whatever you need.”

He doesn’t want to kick her out of her home, but he can see by the determine glint in her eye that he wouldn’t be able to talk her out of this now that she’s made her mind up. He also appreciates how she mentions the medical supplies offhand, without elaborating that she was aware one of them was hurt. He knows Paz will appreciate it too once he heals enough to be able to focus on something other than masking his wounds.

When she leaves again, with a quick reassurance that the meal wouldn’t be too much longer, Din suggests Paz and the family stay in Omera’s hut, leaving the rest to bunk together in the barn. It makes the most sense, so Paz can stay in a proper bed and heal, and Illian, Ava and Willa can take Omera’s room as they are _aliit_.

“I’m surprised you aren’t jumping at the chance to stay in her bed,” Paz adds snidely to which Din sends a pointed glare through his visor, conscious that the others don’t jump to his defense, though he supposes he had made his affections pretty obvious. “Beskar can’t hide everything.”

“If you invest as much effort in healing as you do in antagonising people, you’ll be right as rain in no time, _vod_ ,” Ava cuts in dismissively, giving a firm shove to get Paz moving out the entrance of the barn.

They leave Paz there to tend to his wounds in private, but not without noticing that Omera has placed the bacta at the forefront of the medical supplies. Din sets his cauterising tool near the stack of supplies too and exchanges a curt nod with Paz. He remembers how much Omera had flinched and whimpered as he’d tended to his own wounds, as if they were her own, and is glad she is saved from having to witness this instance.

When dinner is ready, the villagers treat the Mandalorian’s much the same as they had done upon their arrival; kind smiles from a distance and the odd greeting. They never ask for the Mandalorian’s names, and he notices they are careful to not mention his either. The kids scurry around together, Mandalorian and village alike, and Din is glad to see that even Ryelle and Kyan seem to have some life returning to the empty shell of children he had first witnessed.

When the food is served, Caben enquires about the customs of eating within a tribe, and his people are each shown graciously to separate huts to eat in privacy, though the kids seem perfectly happy to remain in the village hall to eat with everyone else. And he is reminded that while these kids have seen how dark the galaxy can be, they are still kids that are strong and adaptable.

Din remains behind, ignoring his grumbling stomach and instead opting to sit at Omera’s side at the table as she eats her share. He wants to kiss her so bad it is nearly excruciating to be so close yet unable to, her behaviour today around his people just confirming what he already knew.

He had no hope of existing without her, and he was a _di’kut_ for ever trying.

She sends him shy smiles every so often, and the side of his body burns at the soft brush of her against him on his thigh, hip and shoulder, knee coyly knocking his intermittently.

As has become tradition, he and Omera clear their table’s dishes away and take them to the stream to wash just as the Mandalorians are emerging from their designated eating quarters. Omera takes their bowls and spotchka cups kindly and guides them to gather around the fire where the villagers are starting to congregate.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but certainly not for the Mandalorians to be so at ease, silently observing their hosts. Cara is up to her usual antics, drinking with the men of the village and hooting in triumph in some game he had yet to learn the basics of. Paz remains in Omera’s hut, feigning that he has no interest is socialising with ‘outsiders’, but Din knows him better. His injuries were taking a toll and he would be the last to admit it.

The night air brings a chill with it, and once finished washing up, Omera settles in near the fire, a worn blanket thrown over her knees and a basket of threads and weaving tools at her feet. Din sits off to her side with Lucian, the teen talking animatedly about witnessing Paz take down a small army of troopers to protect him and the twins. He idolises the burly Mandalorian, that much is clear, and Din wonders what it would be like if someone looked up to him like that.

“Can I sit there?” a chiming voice breaks him from the trance the flames had caught him in, and he sees Winta standing in front of him with a beaming smile and a pointed finger to the Winta-sized gap between him and Omera.

The little one is in her arms, face contorted in a big yawn as his eyes droop with sleep. So, Din takes the kid from her and pats the empty space on the pallet for her to wedge herself into. And as if that is all the encouragement they needed, the twins approach Omera too. Din watches as she gives them a soft look of question, abandons the charm she’d been weaving and folds the blanket back to offer them a seat at her other side. They settle in only slightly nervously.

“Better?” she asks, tucking the edges of the blanket snuggly around their forms and they nod shyly.

Watching her with the twins, any child really, makes his heart ache and throat constrict. This woman was born to be a mother, a kindness and stillness in every fibre of her being, yet she’d been robbed of the big family he knows she would have loved to have when her husband was taken from her. And sitting like this, surrounded by kids and laughter and _peace_ , he thinks he might have been born for this too.

“What’s that?” Ava suddenly asks, settling on the other side of the twins and indicating to the collection of woven threads in Omera’s lap.

“A charm,” she smiles fondly, securing a thread before turning to the Mandalorian and explaining. Din knows the tale well, but would happily listen to the pride in her voice countless times. He remembers how she’d seemed embarrassed the time he’d asked about it, as if it were some backwater custom.

“Will you teach me?” Ava asks, running gloved fingers over the intricate work, and Omera beams at her.

“I’d be happy to.”

Din smiles at the exchange, Ava has always made fast friends.

He leaves them to their bonding so he can settle the kid into his crib for the night. Not too long after, the harrowing travel also catches up with his people, and they retire for the night after having helped haul a few straw mattresses into the barn from various different huts.

The village is still winding down from their days’ work, and bid the Mandalorian’s a good night while they continue up for a little longer. Lucian carries the napping twins into the barn and Illian and Ava have already disappeared into Omera’s hut with Willa. With his people retired and Winta dozed across her lap, Din leans over and butts his helmet softly against Omera’s cheek, a nervous hand placed gently on her lower back. She instantly sinks into the gesture, giving a soft hum of content and nuzzling him back.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, sitting back and watching as she tilts her head in question. “For today. I imagined it going so many different ways, but you made them feel at ease, at _yaim_.” At home.

She smiles prettily at him and he is struck once again with a deep yearning to kiss her, take her back to the forest where they can forget all the responsibilities they have to their people, and just exist with one another.

“I might head to bed too,” he utters instead of saying all that, stands up and lets his hand drag all the way up her back in a gentle caress as he does. There is a satisfied coil in his stomach at the shiver it induces throughout her body, the way her eyes watch his every move.

“Goodnight,” she whispers with a soft smile.

He bids goodnight to a couple of the other woman as they move to keep Omera company, and then he is making his way to the barn. He is halfway there when he notices a figure in the doorway, golden helmet trained on him, quirked subtly in thought. His steps falter, she must have seen, he definitely hadn’t been discrete about it just now. But he knew this was coming sooner or later, and it was probably best to just be out with it.

He lets out a deep sigh and pauses at the foot of the porch leading into the barn. She towers a full head and shoulders above him and he looks up into her impenetrable visor.

“I have a confession,” he murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really struggled with the name thing here! I’m not sure if it was a consistency issue in the show or something, but I’m stumped. 
> 
> When Moff Gideon says Din’s name, Din says he hasn’t heard it since he was a child. Which leads me to think that maybe the Mandalorians don’t call each other by their names? Or just plain don’t know each other’s names? 
> 
> BUT THEN the Armourer comes all out of nowhere like “hold this for Din Djarin...” like she’s been calling him that her whole life?! And he doesn’t seemed shocked. AT ALL. Yet two minutes ago he was like “jeez, I haven’t heard that name in a while!” 
> 
> AND AND AND he’s all like “I was once a foundling” and the Armourer is all like “I know”. But, like, he didn’t know that she knew? But she knows his name?! Much confusion!
> 
> Anyway enough rambling and thinking. This gave me nearly as much of a headache as tracking fobs and chain codes did 😅 so I decided that, yes, they do know each other’s name, but just maybe don’t use them often. Or maybe Din just was never close enough to anyone for them to use it. 
> 
> Rant done. Thank you and goodnight!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of conversations, everyone has their part to play, and the Mandalorians head off to their new home!

“The beautiful farmer,” she deduces, voice monotone and unsurprised. “Is she your confession?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hand slung in his belt in a casual stance that in no way reflects the turmoil within him.

She doesn’t say anything else, merely watches him from behind her visor, before casting a quick glance back into the barn. There is no movement from inside, and she inclines her head to the side, guiding him to follow her away from the centre of the village.

They pass the ponds, far out of earshot of any of the still awake farmers, and he is working through how best to broach this topic. They come to a halt and he clears his throat. 

He hesitates for only a moment longer, willing as much strength and determination into his voice as he can muster. Because this wasn’t up for debate.

“I want her to be my _riduur_.”

“I see no problem,” she says, matter of fact, and his carefully laid defense dies on his breath.

He is shocked. He had assumed he would have to plead his case, painstakingly recall all Omera is and isn’t, and why an outsider should be accepted. But the stoic Armourer asks for none of that, and he tries to not feel hopeful yet. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“She’s seen my face, I took my helmet off for her,” he tells the Armourer, needs her to know that it wasn’t Omera’s wish or an ultimatum, it was by his own free will. While he has no regrets, that doesn’t mean he feels no guilt, and he struggles with finding that balance. “I… it’s not the Way.”

She seems almost as if she had expected as much, and she casts her gaze back into the village, where the farmers are yet to retire for the night and are drinking joyously around the fire.

“This wasn’t always the Way. It came at a time of necessity, for our survival. But, this way of life…,” she articulates slowly, clearly choosing her words carefully, though their authority remains absolute. “It isn’t for some people.”

He frowns, whether it was ‘for some people’ or not was beside the point when an oath is concerned.

“I swore the Creed. I have dishonoured our people–”

“You dishonour no one,” she cuts him off, snapping her helmet to where he is struggling at her side to comprehend how she could be accepting this so well. “Since coming to us you have done nothing but prove yourself loyal to our tribe. It would seem you have done so here too. Choosing a _riduur_ outside our own does not make you _dar'manda_. Our ranks are too few to turn capable men away purely because they have chosen another outside our own, to have a family.”

 _Dar’manda_. Soulless, exile. A fate worse than death.

He wonders if she would feel the same if she knew how conflicted he was about all this.

He stammers, trying to see beyond the blankness of her visor to what he was possibly missing. She was level-headed by nature, calm and collected, but he’d suspected that persona might have fractured under his confessions. However, it didn’t, it was as strong and solid as it had always been. He still feels like he needs to explain, not defend himself because in his mind there is no excuse, but his people deserved an explanation.

“I didn’t want to make her decide until she’d seen my face. To make sure she was happy to see it for the rest of her life. To respect _her_ Way. But if she refuses…”

“From what I can see, there will be no concerns making this woman yours. Even if there was, the Way our tribe follows, it is not the only Way. You were not born for it and it isn't you,” she shakes her head and exhales, sounding a lot like a soft sigh. "But this place could be.”

He tries to not take offense to what she’s said. She states the facts as plainly as they are, always has, and it was true. He was not born Mandalorian, begun his training later than most, but barely battered an eyelid at swearing the Creed and hiding his face from all. It hadn’t been hard because he’d had no one he cared about, no one he wanted to show his face to. He had liked the isolation that came with it, the withdrawal from social conventions, or at least he had told himself that.

But since coming here, all that had seemed so restrictive in a way it never had before. People accepted him, armour and all, and it made him desperately want to be accepted without it too.

“And you’d like to stay here,” she states, breaking his racing train of thought. It isn’t a question, and she lifts a placating hand when he makes an indistinguishable croak. She knew as well as he did that there was no denying it. “The evidence is everywhere. This is your _yaim_. _She_ is your _yaim_.”

He sighs and hums in agreement, voice thick and watching as he can just see Omera sitting by the fire, face alight in humour at something the group was discussing.

The Armourer looks on too as she continues, "In a way we never could be."

"I was happy with the Covert," he quickly disagrees, stepping into her line of sight.

"Before the child, I don’t think I’d ever seen you do more than merely _endure_. You have the strength and loyalty of a Mandalorian. But the kindness and soul that exists only with this village. I think you could be happy here. Truly happy."

He shifts his gaze to the ground. He _knows_ he could be happy here, but that doesn’t mean he deserves it. Everyone seemed to have this completely irrational idea that he was a lot more worthy than he really was.

"You do not want a family? Children?" she asks into the silence, and when he looks back at her, she cocks her helmet curiously.

He feels his face redden under the helmet, his stomach churning at the thought, and clears his throat as he hesitates.

“… I do,” he finally sighs, and she blatantly stares at him as if she sees no predicament until he continues. “But there is a peace here that I thought the galaxy had lost. I respect our culture with every bone in my body, but it is not the life I want for her. Or her daughter. I know what that means for the Creed, but I’d still like to continue to help the tribe. I will help bring our people back here, set up the Covert again. Omera will understand."

She nods absently and watches as he fidgets, “You seem to think you must make a choice, that one cannot exist within the other. What makes you Mandalorian?”

“Upholding the _Resol'nare_ ,” he replies automatically. Their values, their code, the six tenets.

“And how does living here breach that? If you continue to don _beskar’gam_ , speak our language, teach your children of our ways, defend your clan and support the tribe?”

He doesn’t miss how her wording is ‘teach’ his children of their ways and not ‘raise’. He may not want Winta to be raised as he was, but a part of his pride desperately wants to share his culture with her, show her what had made him what he is today. He thinks she would be just as eager to learn.

And if he really did maintain all that… well, he struggles to wrap his head around it. But as good as that sounds, he can’t imagine spending the rest of his days amongst the farmers, for them to never know his face.

"My helmet..,” he trails off as he realises the words have been uttered instead of merely resonating in his mind.

"As I said, it was a time the necessitated it, that we believed was crucial to our survival. But perhaps that wasn’t the best way to safe-guard our future. We have discussed as such in the past few months, and we may have lost our Way in our ambition to uphold the Creed radically. Our secrecy was our survival, our survival our strength. But at what cost? If we lose people entirely because they choose an outsider?”

This conversation has flipped his whole world off its axis. He’d come to Sorgan to recover, stay for a couple of months, tops, then move on and try to find the kid’s people.

Because he knew he couldn’t have a life here.

He’d spend his days looking for the kid’s people and his own. And he would have been content with that, if he hadn’t known what it was like to have Omera return his affections.

But he took his helmet off for her that first night and there was no going back, he belonged completely to her. He would have stayed on Sorgan for as long as she’d have him, and he’d continue to search for the Mandalorians, provide for them and help them, but figured he would no longer have a place with them.

And now to learn that he maybe didn’t have to choose, by some stroke of luck he could have both? It was so far from anything he had ever expected.

He is grateful, beyond grateful, but a small, selfish part of himself thinks of another life. He’d dreamt of it before, of late afternoon sun and the silhouette of a woman waiting for him. Where he could feel the sun on his face, the breeze through his hair, and a warm body against his own without the distance his beskar always created.

He doesn’t realise his gaze has once again found its way to her by the fire until he notices her standing, the small collection of villagers finally calling it a night.

He feels jealousy stir irrationally in his gut as he watches a man walk with her back to a hut that is clearly not her own.

But then he remembers her undying kindness has pushed her from her own home while his people are here, taking up her residence. Another woman comes out to greet them at the entrance of the hut, and Din wants to laugh at himself for his ridiculous possessiveness.

She disappears into the hut and he finally feels free of the constant draw he has towards her. He turns to see the Armourer has been watching him carefully. 

“Think on it,” she suggests, inclining her helmet back towards the barn. “Any children you have will be welcomed into the Creed if you wish it. But we will respect whatever choice you make.”

He is stunned into silence as she heads back to the barn, and then he is following her. He watches his feet as he walks and can just see the slight tilt of her visor towards him out the corner of his vision.

“You don’t owe us, or the galaxy anything. Despite what you think," she concludes, stepping up onto the porch and entering the darkened barn, leaving him like a gaping _di’kut_ in her wake.

She was so wrong, _everyone_ was, they just couldn’t see it.

* * *

The next morning there is a very distinct pounding in Omera’s temple. She rolls her back in a slow stretch on the cot and suppresses a yawn. Blinking her eyes open she takes in the small sitting area of the hut that isn’t hers, and she is reminded of last night when the disorientation wears off.

Glancing over her shoulder she sees Winta nestled between herself and the wall, arms flung above her head and thick, chaotic hair sprawled over her face. Her features are peaceful in sleep and soft snores fill the air.

“Good morning,” a soft whisper draws her attention away from her daughter and into the smiling face of Heidi as she pads in from another room. “I hope you slept alright.”

“Very well, actually,” she returns, carefully extracting herself from Winta and tucking the blankets back around the sleeping girl. “Thank you for having us.”

The other woman waves her off kindly and indicates for her to sit at the table while she freshly brews a pot of tea.

Heidi had offered to have Omera and Winta for the night, seeing as it was only her and her husband occupying their hut, unlike many of the others who had whole families under their roofs. Cara too had had no shortage of offers, and she wonders where she ended up for the night. Omera was happy to know that her home was being put to good use, the injured Mandalorian and the family settling in there for the night.

Glancing outside, she can see the sun is rising, but the village remains still, no one having ventured out just yet. A steaming cup of tea is placed before her and the heady aroma is a welcomed treat as it instantly relieves some of the tension in her head.

“They’re very quiet, aren’t they? Din’s people, I mean,” Heidi begins, sipping from her own cup and settling across from her. “I don’t know what I had been expecting, but they are more like him that I would have thought.”

“I thought so too. Friendly, even. They have suffered so much, and those poor children…,” she shakes her head, heart aching at the picture of their broken faces, the protectiveness so clearly seen from all the adults.

And the two without parents had seemed to instantly take a liking to her, or at least felt at ease around her. The village children had welcomed them all as if they had been old friends, quickly including them in their games and letting them be kids again, something she wonders if they had ever experienced.

Looking over at Heidi, Omera can see the sadness in her kind blue eyes, it was mirrored in everyone after seeing the Mandalorian children so distant. The village children had feared the raiders, had nightmares or just plain couldn’t sleep at night, but it never stole their childhood from them. She feels sickened to think of what atrocities the Mandalorians must have seen to have theirs taken from them.

“They’re safe now though,” she shakes her head and gives a hopeful smile that Heidi returns.

“There must be something about you that draws Mandalorians in,” the other woman remarks, a knowing curl to her lips that has Omera blushing behind her cup of tea. She suspects she is no longer talking about the children.

“I think it is a two-way road,” she replies, a fondness to her voice she can no longer hide.

The smile Heidi gives is gentle, kind, as if she’s known all along.

And she probably did. _Stars_ , the rest of the village certainly did.

None of them were quite as teasing as Cara, though there was no shortage of subtle remarks or knowing looks. At first, they’d seemed the slightest bit shocked, as Omera had never shown interest in anyone since her husband had passed, even though it had been ten years. Then the most unlikely of contenders had waltzed into their lives and she’d been captivated at first sight.

She knows they all want to ask, what was their relationship, and would he be staying here, but they never do, and she is glad because the answer isn’t so simple. She knows they are happy for her, they really like Din too, but they are also fiercely protective.

“Well, I’m on meal duty,” Heidi sighs and downs the rest of her cup as she stands. “Dom’s still out for the count from last night, so don’t mind him.” A low snore sounds from the bedroom as if to prove her point and the woman both snigger.

Omera thanks her again, to which Heidi just waves her off and heads out into the morning, giving a surprised morning greeting to whoever she meets out there.

“Good morning, is Omera here?” the soft voice asks, distinctive modulator altering her tone, and Omera pops her head out to see the female Mandalorian with the beautifully painted armour standing there.

“Oh, good morning,” she greets the Mandalorian, sending Heidi a parting smile as the woman heads over to the hall. She turns her gaze back to the Mandalorian before her, and her brows knit in sympathy. “Did you manage to get much sleep?”

“We all slept really well, thank you for offering your home,” she replies, and Omera thinks she can hear the smile behind her visor. “I was just coming to say we’ve cleared out now, even the big oaf, so you have your place back.”

“There was no rush. How is he?”

“Back to his old annoying self,” she sighs in good humour. “Bacta and rest work wonders, though I noticed the charm hanging up, so it must have protected our dreams too. Thank you again.”

“Anytime,” she assures and the Mandalorian gives a characteristic nod before heading to the barn.

Omera walks back inside to find Winta waking, sitting in the cot and rubbing bleary eyes. Her confused gaze sweeps the foreign home before settling on her mother and then it is as if a light bulb goes off and reminds her of their guests.

“Have they left already?” she splutters, frantically untwisting her legs from the heavy blankets and scrambling off the cot.

“Not yet, love,” she laughs, crossing the room to steady her daughter.

“Oh,” she huffs, calming down and grinning up into Omera’s face from the tight grip she has on her waist.

“I’m very proud of you, you did so well in making them feel welcome yesterday,” she kisses the top of her head and glances to the entrance when she hears another approach, the footfall and chink of armour so familiar.

Din stands on the threshold, leaning against the frame in a relaxed posture that she hasn’t seen on him in days, and it brings a smile to her face.

“You did, they haven’t stopped talking about you,” his deep voice rumbles from the entrance and he unhitches himself when Winta looks to him proudly. He takes two strides to meet them where they stand and tips his helmet low towards her. “Or you. The twins are quite taken.”

“I’m glad,” she says softly, wanting to lean in the short distance between them but is very aware of an oblivious Winta smiling up at them, so she gives her quick instructions. “The Mandalorians are no longer in our home. Go wash up and get ready for the day.”

“They won’t leave without saying goodbye, right?” Winta pipes up, forehead creased in concern.

Din shakes his head, “We will leave in a few hours, after breakfast and once we’ve packed their supplies from their ship.”

“Okay!” She beams, concern completely dissolved, and rushes back to the cot to retrieve her doll before darting out of the hut.

Omera barely has the chance to breath a laugh before Din’s gloved fingers are a warm pressure between her own and he is pressing his helmet to her forehead gently. She sees the tension leave him in an exhale and she reaches up to lace her fingers behind his neck to hold him to her.

And there is something different about him, the change is only very acute, but it is in the way he carries himself and in the way his hands settle on her hips the moment they’re released from her own. She wonders if it is just the relief that his people were finally here, were safe, and they had a place to call their own now.

A loud snore breaks through the silence around them and Din instantly goes rigid, turning his helmet towards the sound. She quickly soothes him, guiding hand to the cheek of his helmet as she brings his visor back to look at her.

“It’s just Dom,” she whispers, closes her eyes to briefly press more firmly against him before regretfully stepping back. He sighs, and she blushes to know he sounds as frustrated as she feels.

“I’ll stay at the outpost with them tonight,” he says, settling his hands back into his belt. “And I’ll bring the speeder back tomorrow morning.”

He doesn’t say whether he will be remaining here when he brings the speeder back, but she can’t stop herself from hoping, though she makes sure to never let him know that.

“Will you take the com link?” She suggests instead. “… to let us know if you need anything?”

He nods and something in the air between them feels different. She still can’t pinpoint it, but at least it doesn’t feel like a bad change. In fact, Din’s entire demeanour feels more open, though she always felt it was, she also felt there was a part of him he kept withdrawn. But not now.

“Thank you again,” he murmurs.

She shakes her head with a soft smile and touch to his arm, “Anything.”

…

She is sitting in the shade of the sail outside the krill shed when the golden helmeted Mandalorian approaches her. The others had left with Din and Cara after breakfast to retrieve their belongings from their ship while she remained behind to watch over the children. And ensure the large Mandalorian continued to rest as long as he could.

Din’s boy sits at her side occupying himself but stops to look up at their visitor. Fingers cramping and tingling from the intricacies of repairing krill baskets for the past hour, Omera is glad for the distraction.

“May I speak with you for a moment?”

“Of course,” Omera smiles up at her, stacking the finished basket with the others and excusing herself from the other villagers beside her.

Din’s boy warbles sadly as she stands, and she gives him a reassuring pat to his wrinkled head. The others assure her they will watch the little one for the minute, so she dusts off her skirts and follows the Mandalorian to the barn where they settle on the edge of the porch.

She got the impression that this woman was the leader of their group, whether as a whole or just this band of survivors she wasn’t sure, but the woman demanded authority, nonetheless.

“It is about Din Djarin,” she says, dark visor locked onto her face and she fights against the instinct to defer her eyes.

 _Djarin_. She hadn’t known his last name. Then she remembers she possibly wasn’t even supposed to know his first name either. Was this a test? Had she already failed by not asking who she was referring to, because surely, she shouldn’t know his name?

"I only want him to be happy. He has been so good to us,” she jumps in quickly to defend him, the last thing she wants is for this to cause issues for him and his people. “I respect him, and your culture, I can...,” she trails off, swallowing against the lump in her throat. He’d told her she didn’t have to, but she would anyway if it would make his life easier. “I want for your people to be able to find a home on Sorgan. I can keep my distance, I never wanted to pressure him or–"

“I suspect he may leave the Creed behind," she cuts her off gently. She doesn’t sound mad, or even frustrated, just as if simply commenting on the weather. “And I want to know what waits for him here if he does.”

Omera takes a moment to comprehend what she is hearing, because surely this was a misunderstanding. Amongst her internal debate, the Mandalorian moves on with the conversation, clearly thinking she doesn’t mean to respond.

“He is a quiet man, always has been, and he has never gotten close to anyone. He’s spent so long trying to prove himself worthy, dedicated his entirety to our people, that he has never lived beyond that. But he seems at peace here, in a way I have never seen him before. I have to believe that is in part due to you.”

Omera feels pride swell within her to think that she might be his peace, but it is quickly dampened by the other observation the Mandalorian had made. She sighs and looks to her hands in her lap, “He saved us, we owe _our_ peace to him. Yet he always thinks he owes everyone else something, no matter how hard we try to convince him otherwise.”

“He cares a great deal for you."

She snaps her eyes to the impenetrable visor, an automatic habit to try read someone’s expression, but completely in vain. She laughs to herself to think she should be used to this by now. She’d gotten remarkably good at reading Din’s subtle characteristics and mannerisms, but these others were an enigma.

She senses detached observation from the woman with that remark, perhaps an undertone of hesitance, but nothing more.

Omera feels her cheeks heat even as a small smile escapes her, "The feeling is mutual. There is little I wouldn’t do for him.”

"Then that is all I need to know,” the Mandalorian says, and there is a warmth to her voice that Omera hadn’t noticed before. “Thank you for being there for him.”

Then she is standing, calling in their rhythmic language to the children playing nearby. They had been playing tag with the other village children and they all skid to a stop, the Mandalorian children responding in their language, and the village children listening in awe.

She smiles at their faces, she suspects she looks much the same anytime she hears the beautiful language, particularly when uttered by Din close to her ear. Her stomach rolls with heat at the thought and she clears her suddenly dry throat as she pushes those thoughts to the back of her mind.

She stands too and when she glances up, she sees that Din, Cara, and the other Mandalorians have returned and are stacking the crates in their arms onto the speeder. She follows behind with a heavy heart as the golden Mandalorian and the children make their way over to join them.

They will be leaving soon and taking Din with them. Not for long, she knows he will be back tomorrow with the speeder, but that is about all she knows.

Din’s boy has noticed his return too and jumps up to waddle along as quickly as his little legs will take him before she can scoop him up on her way past. He chirps happily at the ride and twists little claws into her dress to hold on securely.

Seemingly understanding that this is farewell, the villagers also abandon their work for the moment and crowd around the loaded speeder.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” the gold Mandalorian says, helmet sweeping around the villagers and stopping on her face with a final nod.

Omera nods in return and with a kind smile. Then the Mandalorians are engrossed with the chattering farmers as they offer packed food for the journey and well wishes, so she uses the opportunity to step up to Din.

The child in her arms trills at his father’s back, not happy with going unnoticed, and Din shoves the last of the crates onto the speeder and spins to face them. She smiles softly, trying desperately to make it genuine and not as heart breaking as she is feeling, but is interrupted by a surprising gasp as the child flings himself out of her arms and at Din.

She steps forward quickly to lessen the gap between them as Din does the same, and thankfully he manages to catch the small boy easily with a low reprimand in his language, though the affection in his voice is clear.

The move has brought them impossibly close, but before she can step back, Din is easing his hand into hers to stop her. Almost hesitantly, as if asking for _her_ permission, as if he isn’t sure if _she_ wants to show affection in front of _her_ people. The thought is so absurd and she clasps his fingers tightly.

Din turns to set the child down onto a nest of blankets he had clearly arranged for him, and the little one giggles as he nestles in.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Din murmurs lowly when he turns back, voice thick and fingers holding hers in a death-grip.

She nods quickly, blinking to stop the burning in her eyes.

Farewells were always difficult, and she wars with herself on where to draw the line. She wants to kiss him as his custom dictates, _stars_ , does she want to, but she is also aware of their audience, her daughter amongst it. Holding hands was one thing, but initiating such a private custom of their own in front of his people might be a bit much.

So, she moves slowly, gauging his reaction and giving him time to withdraw if he wishes to. A hug would have to suffice, and he welcomes the embrace easily, arms wrapping around her waist and helmet softly nudging into the gap between her neck and shoulder.

It is only quick, and she pulls back with a quick squeeze to his elbow before removing herself from him entirely. Reaching into the pocket of her apron, she closes her hand around the small device, and she passes it to him. He tips his head in question but when she removes her hand from his, he sees the com link and gives a nod.

Suddenly Winta comes barreling into her side, clutching her tightly and staring up at Din with sadness in her big eyes. She watches as her daughter sends Din a questioning look, eyes flicking to the other Mandalorians.

“We’ll be back, kid, tomorrow,” he says and reaches a hand to ruffle her hair. She swats it away playfully with a toothy grin and rushes to say goodbye to his son. The little one gives her a gentle headbutt that has Winta giggling and drawing the attention of the other Mandalorians.

Omera isn’t sure what they think at the sight of their custom, their visors taking it in curiously. But soon all the goodbye are said, and the Mandalorians are climbing onto the speeder, the purple Mandalorian touching her arm gently with a reminder that she still needs to teach her how to weave a charm.

She smiles happily and agrees. And then they are all loaded up and the speeder staggers to a start, struggling under all the weight of weapons and armour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am mildly concerned that I may be leading this story down a path people are not wanting, so I am really sorry if it seems as if I am disregarding/disrespecting Mandalorian culture. I'm totally not intending to, I just feel there is a heck tonne to consider from Din's perspective. Ahh! Much stress!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorians take in their new home, and Din and Omera are still pining messes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for some suggested... extras. Nothing drastic!

Despite the Mandalorians being a quiet people by nature, the silence in the village that follows their departure is deafening. Worse still is trying to keep a neutral face when she feels her chest constrict as she watches the speeder get swallowed up by the woods, taking Din with it.

A part of her considers the fact that she may not see him again, a larger part than she cares to admit. He’d said he would return, and she trusts him absolutely, but she knows how much his people mean to him. He’d thought they’d been lost, but by some miracle they had found each other again. And that was surely more than enough to make Din reconsider the meagre offering the village had for him in comparison. She just hopes his perceived sense of debt to her and the village does not cause him conflict or influence his choice when it comes to his own happiness.

By now everyone has returned to their duties, and Omera doesn’t miss the kind smiles she receives, even as their eyes speak of sympathy. The village didn’t miss much, and just as they believed that a soul finds ties, they know the pain of when that tie is stretched by distance and space between.

She urges Winta on to join the other children in their games, lessons an abandoned occurrence while the Mandalorians had been visiting. Her daughter goes reluctantly, but not before wrapping Omera in a crushing embrace around her middle.

“Don’t be sad, Mama,” she says confidently and tips her head back to look up at her. “He said he’ll be back tomorrow.”

Omera can only smile down at her, thinking their roles were very much reversed if her daughter was giving her reassurances. She smooths down a few wayward strands of Winta’s hair, places a gentle kiss to the elaborate braid she had woven along her hairline this morning, and then Winta is skirting off with the other children.

Omera heads to the ponds, ready to throw herself headfirst into her work as a distraction, but Cara has other ideas as she saunters over and links an arm through her own.

“Well, hello there,” Cara drawls, careening them around until she is leading them away from the ponds. “You’ve been a popular lady; I barely got a look in.”

Omera lets her tug her along, beaming at her friend and knowing no one will mind a slight delay in the start of her workday, “You just missed our routine early-morning chats.”

“That I did, my friend,” she laughs then plonks them both down on a stacked crate. “And I get the feeling you did too. What’s on your mind?”

Cara’s usual casual, carefree demeanour is replaced with a look of gentle concern, kind eyes open and attentive. Omera is reminded that for all Cara’s teasing and joking, her friend has a heart of gold and is the sister she never had. So of course, nothing would get past her.

Omera puffs out a breath, where to begin?

“I suppose… I just don’t know how things will change now that Din’s people are here,” Omera begins, wondering how to catalogue all that had happened in the last couple of days. “It’s so selfish. I should be happy for him, and I am, but…”

“Who says things have to change?” she counters, head cocked to the side with a shrug. “Din seemed more than comfortable being _all up in your business_ in front of his people. Maybe they wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, actually… they don’t seem to. At least the leader of their group doesn’t seem to. She maybe almost _encouraged_ it…”

She recounts the conversation from earlier, how the golden Mandalorian had confessed she believed Din may very well choose to leave the Creed behind. To Cara’s credit, she doesn’t look particularly shocked, and Omera thinks maybe she really had been blind if everyone else seemed to see this as a natural progression. Even her own daughter, who would undoubtedly be ecstatic at the notion.

The chatter is good at easing her nerves, Cara is surprisingly apt with more serious conversations despite the taunting she always seems to favour.

“I saw you sneak him the com-link,” Cara pipes up suddenly when the conversation lulls, a knowing glint in her eyes.

She doesn’t need to elaborate further for Omera to know what she is insinuating, though she winks anyway, not giving Omera any way of _not_ catching her meaning. A deep blush rushes to her face and she dismisses the other woman’s suggestion, sending a warning knock to her knee with her own.

Cara plays innocent, even though she is anything but, dark eyes wide in mock query as she stands.

“I don’t know what is going through _your_ perverted mind,” Cara deflects, a jokingly scandalised expression colouring her features, and she gives a shrug. “But _I_ was just making an observation.”

Omera can do nothing but shake her head with an unbelieving laugh at her friend’s antics. She was certainly good value.

* * *

Din thinks the good thing about Mandalorians is they aren’t particularly ones for conversation, and the trip to the outpost passes mostly in easy silence. They do briefly discuss the messages received from others in their tribe, and the Armourer already estimates there is upwards of twenty Mandalorians currently making their way to Sorgan.

Din tells them of his time since they had come to his aid on Nevarro, but he doesn’t mention the kid’s powers, and he isn’t really sure why. He’d intrusted the village with the knowledge, be it unintentional, but something makes him keep quiet now. He wonders if the Armourer will, and he watches her quietly observant gaze from the corner of his visor. She doesn’t.

And no one mentions Omera, or the fact that her daughter had shared a parting _kov’nyn_ with the kid. He can only imagine what must have been going through their minds upon seeing it, because Winta and the little one had to have learnt it from somewhere.

He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind and eventually the speeder is pulling up to the outpost. It is as he had left it, overgrown weeds and sagging fences to give the appearance that it remains abandoned, and the Mandalorians take it in in silence.

When the speeder lurches to a stop, he swings himself over the railing first before lifting the kids down too and settling _ad’ika_ into his hovering cradle. The kids stick close to the speeder, watchful, nervous eyes peering into the boarded buildings.

By now everyone has climbed down except Paz, and he grunts as he hauls his big frame to the edge. Din can tell he is still in pain, though he must be in considerably better shape than he had been when they’d arrived yesterday. He finally manages to pull himself to his full height and swivel his head around to take in their surroundings. The rest are all much the same, and it is Paz that is the first to start forwards, limp barely noticeable now.

Din points out the various buildings and discusses what they house, a sense of pride puffing his chest as their awe is clear even through their helmets. He shows them the caves on the edge of the compound, face heating under his helmet as he passes the alcove Omera had dragged him to the other day. His stomach coils at the memory and he moves on quickly, those thoughts wouldn’t be a help to anyone.

When they reach the warehouse at the back, Din watches the Armourer carefully as she paces across the floor with the rest, waiting for her to notice the room to the side. She pauses at the open doorway briefly, steadying hand flitting to the frame, before stepping through the threshold and trailing a gloved hand along the benches lining the walls. She does a full circuit before smoothing her hands over the furnace.

The rest crowd just outside the armoury, letting her have her moment and waiting patiently. She soon looks up and meets Din’s helmeted gaze from across the room, tips her own in a nod of acknowledgement. He returns the gesture and looks down at Kyan at his side, the boy giving him a tiny smile. Both him and Ryelle look to be getting more comfortable, and he thinks maybe it is because the armoury gives them some resemblance of home.

“Woohoo!” Lucian calls when he peers into the other room beside them, quickly disappearing from sight and a rhythmic drumming filling the air. “Score!”

Upon inspection, Din sees the young Mandalorian is standing before a large barrel, hands thumping a beat onto the top as he tips his head to read the labeling on the side. Paz shoulders around Din to inspect the barrel too, both seeming particularly interested.

“This stuff wasn’t half bad,” Paz compliments uncharacteristically, hands slung on his hips and tipping his helmet in thought. “Not as good as ours, but beggars can’t be choosers. Hey, runt, what was it called?”

Ah, there is it. The superiority is back in his voice, and it reminds Din of the Paz he’d always known.

“Spotchka,” he answers defensively, back bristling, and Ava gives a sniggering pat to his shoulder as she moves past him to head back out into the daylight.

They finish their tour and return to the speeder to unload their gear, unloading the food and meals the village had packed for them in the mess hall first. The kids are set up at one of the tables to have their share of the food while the other Mandalorians take the salvaged weapons and crates of beskar into the armoury. It takes them a few trips, but soon they are collecting the kids from the mess hall and taking their personal belongings into the barracks as well as their portions of the meal to eat in the privacy of their own quarters.

Stepping through into the main foyer of the barracks, Ava is the first to notice the charm hanging from the back of the door, its vibrant teal threads sticking out against the slate grey of the walls. She reaches a hand up to it, a finger twirling the tendrils cascading from the bottom of the twisted knots.

He remembers Omera hanging it there, a shyness to her features as she’d questioned him with her eyes. And he’d quickly scoped around to see if anyone was near before giving her a gentle nuzzle with his helmet and egging her on.

“Omera put this here?” Ava asks of him, and he nods curtly, doesn’t think he needs to explain how he’d helped her secure it in the position it now sat, happy that she’d wanted to bestow his people with such a gift, but saddened to think she’d been unsure of how it would be received.

“She was very kind,” Illian retorts, stepping up behind his wife and glancing at the charm too. Of their group, Illian was definitely the quietest and most reserved, even compared to Din himself, so a compliment from the likes of him did not go unnoticed. “I’ve never known an outsider to be so genuine.”

The others hum in agreement, but then Paz steps up and hitches himself to lean against the wall, “So, what exactly _is_ going on there?”

So, it had been wishful thinking back on the speeder to think they wouldn’t mention it. Mandalorians may not be particularly social, but they were observant and blunt. And it seems the others are just as keen to know as Paz is.

Din draws a breath, hand settling uneasily on his sidearm out of habit and he holds his chin up defiantly, strongly, showing no sign of backing down.

“I intend to make her my _riduur_ ,” he explains, sweeping his gaze to each visor in challenge. The twins watch on wide-eyed, though the small glimmer of a smile passes over their faces. Willa looks between everyone with a perplexed furrow in her brow, rounded cheeks puffed out comically.

When no one speaks up against him and Din declines to elaborate further, the others look to the Armourer for guidance. She gives nothing but a pointed stare, and Din gets the feeling he might have been the topic of conversation previously. Paz then suddenly booms with laughter, so reminiscent of Cara that he immediately braces for the inevitable teasing.

“I just can’t believe you found someone to marry your sorry ass!” He japes, pushing off from the wall and giving a playful shove to Din’s chest plate. “Wait ‘til she sees your ugly mug.”

Din grunts low under his breath and hits the teasing hand off to the side, “Last I remember, you were yet to find someone either.”

Ava’s lilting laughter cuts through the tension and she saunters between the two men, a placating hand to the beskar of each of their chests, “Now now, boys, play nice.”

Her tone is teasing, but the steady gaze behind her visor speaks of an authority only a mother seems to possess. An unfamiliar smugness puffs out Din’s chest, and he desperately wants to correct Paz, tell him just how much Omera seemed to like his face, but he knows that is probably unwise. He also knows the other man is only teasing.

Ava waits for them to simmer down, Paz’s hunches relaxing and Din’s fists unclenching, before she turns to Din and holds her arm out expectantly. To congratulate him. He grips her forearm in return and gives a firm nod.

“I’m happy for you,” she says, and he imagines a smile behind the visor. “I can see why you’ve chosen her.”

“She will make a fine _riduur_ ,” Paz surprisingly agrees after a moment, but clearly can’t hold the backhanded remark from under his breath. “For an outsider.”

Ava gives him a quick thump upside the helmet, the metallic echo of the beskar reverberating in the crowded hallway, and Paz shoots a sharp look at Illian. Din gets the distinct impression of ‘control your woman’ from Paz, and Illian himself backs away with raised hands as if to express his unwillingness to intervene. The whole scene is almost laughable, particularly with the Armourer looking on with hands on hips and an irritated tilt to her helmet. He all but breathes a sigh of relief.

“It’s a better blessing than I could have hoped for,” he comments blandly.

“You have yet to ask her, though?” Ava asks.

“Hmm,” he confirms. “It is… relatively new. And there was a lot of work to be done before you arrived, so it did not take precedence.”

“Will she live here with us?” Ryelle asks, hopeful expression on her face. He is glad to see her and her brother adjusting well, slowly transitioning from the shell-shocked children that had arrived just yesterday, but he can’t lie to her, or any of his people.

“No, I am hoping to live with her back at the village,” he says, seeing both the twin’s expressions fall, and he kneels down before them. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t see her again. She is my _aliit_ , but you will always be my tribe.”

Whether the others read between the lines of that or not, Din decides to not dwell on it. The Armourer seems to have the same idea, as she is ushering them all on with the excuse of much still to be done.

Din stands to his full height once more, giving an encouraging pat to both the twins shoulders and then jerking his helmet in the direction the Armourer is leading them. A ghost of a smile passes their faces and then they are following after the others.

Lucian hangs back and falls into step with Din when he moves off too.

“You scored well with Omera,” the young Mandalorian retorts lowly as he leans in, tone all smirk and conspiracy. “Just quietly.”

He huffs in humour, indeed he had.

…

By the time they are settled it is deep into the night and silence surrounds the outpost as Din prepares to do a final perimeter check. The others have retired into the rooms in the barracks, relieved to be able to have separate sleeping quarters so that they may finally rest without their armour. All except Lucian, who the twins stuck close to now that they had left the village, and Omera with it.

The thought of her makes his chest ache and he thinks maybe he should com her, just to let her know everything had gone well.

For her peace of mind, she’d appreciate that.

He laughs without humour at himself and gives a shake of his helmet. He couldn’t even fool himself anymore, he just wanted to hear her voice, speak with her and pretend they weren’t apart. He quickly ducks into the room designated as his to check on the sleeping kid. He hasn’t stirred in his cradle, snoring softly and clutching his fiery frog toy close to his chest.

Like all who met him, the Mandalorians were easily won over, the kids particularly, who fussed over him and took turns feeding him. And the little Womp Rat had sat there like royalty, mouth wide open and greedy as if his own hands didn’t work.

“You’re a little menace, kid,” he huffs with affection, tucking the blanket in tighter around his form before heading out into the night.

There is a chill in the air that he is unfamiliar with, the village had always been pleasant, but he thinks that might just in his mind because he is missing home. The beskar and layers protect him from it though and he makes his way around the compound, careful eye on the lookout.

It is utterly still, and he thinks now is as good a time as any to com her. He rounds the corner of the warehouse and follows along the fence line, digging into his pocket to retrieve the small com-link. It is paired to the one she has, so he flips the switch to hail its twin and open the communications line.

He twirls the small device in his hand as he paces, watching the blinking red light illuminated on its side that confirms the com line is open. He doesn’t say anything, holding off in case she is asleep and not wanting to wake her. Just when he thinks he’s missed his chance and is about to close the line, the blinking light flicks to a solid glow and a soft click registers through the speaker. He stops in his tracks.

There is a faint rustling, then a soft, but groggy voice speaks into the silence, “Hello?”

The tightness in his chest instantly dissipates upon hearing her and he feels a fluttering in his stomach.

“Hey.”

“Din,” she breaths, the smile clear in her voice and he can hear as she shuffles on the other side. “Is everything alright? How are you?”

“Good. Everything’s good. We only just got everything settled,” he says, continuing on his path and casting his gaze out to sweep the surrounding forest.

She hums sympathetically, “You must be tired. I hope you weren’t on the com for long, you should have said something. I nearly missed you.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, sorry to com so late,” he apologises, though is not really sorry at all. He doubts he would have been able to sleep without contacting her anyway.

“I’m happy you did,” she whispers back though he can hear the slight wavering in her voice as if she is changing her position. “What did they think of it?”

“They were impressed, it’s perfect. They appreciate what the village has done for them, and especially that you made it all happen,” he begins, and when she makes a sound as if about to disagree, he continues. “They all said it. All spoke of you.”

She is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, she is no longer whispering, “So they approve?”

He halts at the far edge of the warehouse, staring into the com blankly while he tries to make sense of the relief he hears in her voice. She’d been worried they wouldn’t like her? She’d seemed nervous about their arrival, but he had assumed that was due to reasons beyond the absurdity that they _wouldn’t like her_.

“That’s what you’ve been worried about?” he asks, mindful to keep the incredulity out of his voice so as not to discount her apprehensions.

“…A little. But anyway, what are you doing?”

He heads towards the covered walkway to make his way to the front of the compound. He wants to say something to reassure her. If he was better with words, he would probably be able to. But he wasn’t, and rather than fumble his way through and reminding her that she deserves so much better, he just continues on.

“I’m just doing a perimeter check. The others have gone to bed already and I’ve put the kid to sleep,” he explains, and it suddenly dawns on him that he contacted her in the dead of night, and she doesn’t live alone. “I just realised the time, sorry. Did I wake Winta and Cara?”

She hums a no, “I left the hut when we started talking, don’t worry.”

“Now I’m worried you’re getting cold standing outside,” he utters. He’d thought it sounded like she had been walking before, and he imagines her standing on her porch, clutching her arms tightly around herself against the cold.

“I’m not outside,” she trails off after a time, speaking slowly and measured as she considers her words. “…I’m sitting on your bed actually, is that alright?”

His steps falter and his stomach drops. He doesn’t trust his voice with the imagine of her on his bed consuming his mind, so he grunts out an affirmation.

“Then I’m all yours,” she replies. He pictures the beaming smile he can hear in her voice and he swallows against the dry itch in his throat.

“I like the sound of that,” he rumbles, feeling emboldened because she can’t see him, the com giving him a certain confidence that he can never seem to possess in her presence.

She gives a soft, chiming laugh and he hears the shifting of fabric as he imagines her settling down to get comfortable, “Which part? Me sitting on your bed, or being yours?”

“Both,” he counters lowly, picking up the pace to finish his rounds. “But I should be there with you.”

This time she giggles, and he is reminded of bold conversations and heated kisses. 

“When you get back then?” she asks softly. “I’ll be here waiting.”

“Is that a promise?” he rushes to reply, just barely letting her finish her sentence.

“I promise,” she huffs softly, he hears as she wets her lips and hesitates. “Are you finished your perimeter check?”

He nods quickly, satisfied the compound is secure, and heads into the common room, “Yeah, I’m heading inside now.”

“Oh, good,” she says as he makes his way to the back of the mess hall and sits down on a bench seat. He places the com-link down gently on the table before him and stretches to recline back against the wall as she continues. “Can we talk a bit longer? Are you alone?”

“Hmm, in the commons,” he hums, then he hears the distinct rustling of sheets and draws a shaking breath. “Are you…are you laying down?”

And it is her turn to hum softly, hesitate, then make his breath catch entirely with her next words, “But it feels weird lying here without you…”

…

_[Link to "fill in the blanks" chapter three!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876319/chapters/63003412#workskin) _

…

“I’m heading back first thing in the morning,” he tells her later with clipped words, forcing himself to take a calming breath as he loosens the grip he has on the edge of the bench seat.

“There’s no rush, I’ll be here waiting,” she laughs lazily, and he hears as she stretches out with a long inhale. “Well, maybe rush a bit.”

“Hmm,” he agrees, and the part of him ruled by his ego imagines her inhaling his pillow, finding comfort in his lingering scent.

“I might head to bed,” she sighs sadly. “If I don’t go now, I might fall asleep here.”

His mind conjures the image, a dozy Omera lounging beneath his sheets, long tresses cascading over his pillow and curling at the ends. It’s not so far from the reality of the other night. So, he thinks that sounds pretty good, can find no objection, but by the time he wonders if he should voice that, he loses his nerve and remains silent. He feels utterly stupid, ridiculous, for being so nervous and shy after all this, but he is powerless to stop the niggling emotion.

“ _Nuhoy pirusti_ ,” he says instead, getting a thrill out of knowing she likes when he speaks in his language.

If she doesn’t recall that he is wishing her a good sleep, she doesn’t let on, and merely sighs contently with a soft murmur, “Say something else.”

He feels his lips purse into a hard line, heart thudding heavily in his chest, but the words are out before he can really think better of them, “ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum_.” I love you.

It is freeing to utter the declaration without her express knowledge of his confession, and with the words out, he can finally breathe easy.

She huffs a satisfied laugh, voice dropped low and dreamy, “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t want to lie, but he also isn’t ready to bare his heart openly, especially over a com. So, he bends the truth.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he replies evenly. If she assumes that is the translation of what he had just said before, and not just a statement in parting, then so be it.

“Tomorrow then,” she confirms happily and Din feels the irrational falling of his heart that she didn’t reiterate his confession. Ridiculous. Because she had no clue, because he was such a coward.

They end the com shortly thereafter, and Din thumps his helmet back against the wall with a sigh. Being away from her was hard, but speaking to her had settled the ache in his chest somewhat. Though, that being said, it had spurred on a different ache entirely in his gut and he grits his teeth as he stands stiffly.

He heads back to the barracks to hit the showers with mixed feelings about the lack of hot water the outpost had. Truthfully, there was most likely nothing he _needed_ more than a cold shower at the moment, but it was still the last thing he _wanted_.

Either way, by the time he returns to the room where the child sleeps, devoid of armour aside from his helmet, he is more than ready for sleep himself. He flips the lock on the door and sets his helmet down on the mattress of the top bunk.

Stretching out on the bottom mattress, he reaches to tug the kid’s hovering cradle over to his bedside. As suspected, the little one remains much as Din had left him, and he finds himself smiling as he eases back down onto his back. He gazes up at the slates of the bed above him, wondering what time it must be and how early he can realistically manage to leave come morning.

He isn’t sure when his eyes drift shut and he is consumed by dreams, but he welcomes them as the warmth of Omera’s body moulds against his as he holds her close, careening through the air with the patchwork of krill ponds extending out beneath them. He dips this way and that, finding the perfect combination to have her squirming, clinging closer and burrowing in his neck.

When he wakes, it is with a deep longing to make that dream and reality.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din can't stay away, and everyone knows it. And he brings some unexpected companions back with him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for Cara being herself and teasing relentlessly, and Omera being a little suggestive of "steamy outtakes". 
> 
> Also, I'd just like to take a moment to gush over [Boggy's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boggy/pseuds/Boggy) latest chapter of her ficlets [May I Suggest? - A Mandalorian Prompt Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539876/chapters/62735317)
> 
> I'm sure everyone has already checked it out, but she is insanely talented and in general just THE BEST! Reading that piece was like looking into the future of this fic (only her writing is so beautiful!), and actually fits in perfectly with the next couple of chapters. It is such an honour to have inspired creativity from another writer, and I am so incredibly humbled!

“Where’d you go last night? I saw you coming back in,” Cara asks the next morning when Omera ventures out of her room.

She is perched in her normal spot of morning sunlight at the table in the sitting area. A steaming cup of tea in front of her and brow furrowed as she messes with a panel of circuitry. There is no teasing in her tone, but Omera feels a heat rush to her cheeks nonetheless and cannot think of an excuse quick enough.

Clearly concerned with her silence, Cara glances up from her work with worried eyes, even as sparks fly this way and that, a thin spiral of smoke dissolving into the air.

“Ow!” she hisses, eyes shooting back to the offending wires and shaking out her electrocuted fingers as Omera settles into the seat across from her.

When Cara meets her eyes again, only after tossing the circuit panel aside with a glare, the concern quickly melts away and her eyes widen in disbelief.

“Kriff, is he back already? Couldn’t even stay away for one night?” she laughs, rolling her eyes and leaning over on her chair to peer out the entrance. “I didn’t see the speeder when I opened up this morning.”

“No, he’s not back. He just… he com’d last night and we talked,” Omera explains, avoiding the leering look she knows must be in Cara’s eyes as she finishes securing the braid she’d been weaving.

When she finally looks up, though, Cara’s expression shows nothing but curiosity for a brief moment before the characteristic smirk takes over her face.

Omera realises she may have gotten away with it if she’d had a better poker face.

“You just… talked?” Cara muses, but Omera cannot keep the shy smile off her face and it is all the ammunition the other woman needs, hands flat on the table and leaning over in scandal. “No?! Omera, you _dog_!”

“Shh!” she laughs, reaching a calming hand to clamp on Cara’s forearm. Craning her neck to look around, she is relieved to see Winta hasn’t surfaced yet. “It was… relatively tame. He didn’t… but I…”

She doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, to explain that he’d been nothing but gentlemanly, and _she_ were the one that… stars, she was at a loss just thinking about it.

“Okay, okay, steady on, don’t give yourself an aneurysm. Kriff, you _are_ a pair of teenagers. I’m just glad you realised there are… other uses for a com-link,” she laughs, giving Omera’s hand a light tap before retracting her arm to recline back in her chair. “Well, shall we take bets then? I’d say after that he’d be chomping at the bit to get home.”

“He did say he would be heading back first thing,” Omera agrees with a pleased smile, taking a sip of tea from Cara’s cup.

“Was that before, or after you swindled the poor man? I can just imagine, his head probably exploded in that dome of his.”

Omera has to clamp her lips shut around the mouthful of tea as it threatens to burst out from Cara’s response. Her eyes water and she quickly swallows down the hot liquid, coughing to clear her scorched throat.

“I did not… swindle him,” she defends with a laugh, then straightens her back in smugness. “He suggested it in fact… But it _was_ after, when he said that he’d be back this morning.”

Her defense loses its steam and Cara booms with laughter, so deep-bellied and full that she wouldn’t be surprised if it woke the whole village this time. It certainly rouses Winta judging by the scuffling sounds of blankets coming from her room.

“I pity the soul that gets between the two of you when he returns then,” Cara sneers quickly before Winta comes toddling into the sitting area. At the sight of the young girl, the teasing washes from her face and she sends a beaming smile. “Morning, Squirt.”

“G’morning,” Winta mumbles back, punctuated with a yawn as she tucks herself into Omera’s side.

“Did you sleep alright, love?” she asks her daughter, wondering if she too had noticed her absence in the dead of the night.

Winta nods as she is still working up to proper conversation, she most definitely was not a morning person, then suddenly the drowsiness in her eyes clears and her face lights up, “Are they home?”

“Not yet, but I don’t think they’ll be long, Din’s boy is probably missing you.”

Winta beams with pride, “ _Ad’ika_.”

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” she confirms with a smile. She was no expert on the matter, but she’d say Winta’s pronunciation was coming along well. “Din will be very impressed to know you’ve been practicing his language.”

She beams with praise and the two women meet eyes over her unruly head of hair. She was immensely proud of her daughter, and it was clear to see that Cara thought much the same. Omera had never had any siblings, but Cara filled that void the moment she’d stepped foot in the village, holding a part of her heart since the very beginning. And while the village children were mostly raised collectively, their community tight knit, it was nice for Winta to have an Aunt figure in her life that was solely hers.

“What did you think of Din’s people?” Cara asks Winta, and her little face flashes with awe.

“They were so cool! Did you see their armour?!” she gushes excitedly to Cara, then turns her animated gaze to Omera. “And they were nice, Mama. The kids played with us for ages!”

She laughs at her daughter’s jumbled speech, words tumbling over each other as she tries to get it all out. And Cara just eggs her on more, feeding into her infatuation with small interjections. When she is done, Winta has to pause to catch her breath, wide grin across her flushed face.

“Will we have lessons today?” Winta asks, suddenly acting indifferent but very clearly _not_ wanting to have lessons.

“Of course,” she responds, poking jolting fingers into the girl’s ribs that have her in squirming fits of laughter as she tries to swat Omera’s hands away. “Though I think we may be able to _swindle_ our way into having the last swimming lesson of the season too, what do you think?”

She shares a conspiring eyebrow quirk with Cara at all the swindling, then Winta is bobbing excitedly, gloominess at returning to lessons all but forgotten.

“Yes!” Winta punctuates with a pumped fist in the air, then catapults herself off the chair. “Can we wait for Din to come back? Then we can all go.”

And then she is running back into her room to get ready for the day.

“You, my friend, are an expert in the art of swindling,” Cara says, reclining back in her seat with arms spread wide in a long stretch.

* * *

When Din awakens the next morning, he is disorientated for all of two seconds before the last day comes rushing to the forefront of his mind. He’d slept so well recently, and he doesn’t recall waking often during the past night, but he also doesn’t feel as well rested as he has become accustomed too.

He has to believe that has something to do with the village. And although he’d spoken to Omera before retiring, it was nothing compared to knowing she slept soundly, safely, just beyond his own quarters.

The thought of Omera brings a dull ache to his stomach as he recalls last night. By all accounts he should have slept well, but their chat had only stirred emotions that would not be settled unless in her presence once more.

With that thought, he rolls off the bunk and comes face to face with wide eyes peering over the brim of the hovering cradle. The little one tips his head with a gentle chirp, but there is a sadness in his eyes too.

“I know, kid,” he grunts, he gets it, patting his fuzzy head gently as he moves to the neatly stacked beskar and begins suiting up. “We will go back soon, as soon as we can.”

Obviously satisfied, the kid waits patiently for him to finish donning the armour and straightening out the sheets. When Din offers his arm, the kid wastes no time before quickly scrambling up it, and they leave their room in search of the others.

Walking down the hall of the barracks, Din sees the doors wide open and beds freshly made, and if he knew Paz at all, the mess hall would be his best bet on where they were all congregated. He heads there too, before he can talk himself into contacting Omera again instead.

When he enters the commons, he can just see the group of Mandalorians through the walkway into the mess hall, spread out at one of the tables and Paz ferreting around in the kitchen. The kids are already eating, adults waiting patiently for them to finish before taking their own portions back to the privacy of their rooms.

“Hey,” Lucian calls, the first to see as Din approaches them, and then the twins are scooting on the bench seat to make room for him. They push a spare bowl of food over for the kid in his arms who chirps in excitement.

Din tips his head in thanks and settles in before turning to the Armourer, “What’s on the agenda?”

“I’ll start up the furnace, there is a fair amount of beskar to get through,” she explains, then turns her gaze to sweep the helmets around the table. “And I imagine the rest of you will use this time to recover, it has been some time since we could rest easy.”

Din is nodding just as Paz finishes in the kitchen and emerges with arms full of various food items stacked against his burly chest plate. He upends the contents onto the table with a sound of approval and sits down beside Illian, jostling the table as he goes.

“Get those in you,” he tells the kids as he shoves a couple extra protein bars their way. “They’ll make you the strongest Mandalorians of us all.”

They all beam at him, even little Willa from between her parents, and take a break from their bowls of food the village had prepared to snatch up the bars.

“You too, runt. Put some meat on those bones or you’ll have nothing to offer your lady love,” Paz teases him from across the table. Ava looks like she is ready to pounce, and Illian places a placating hand on her shoulder. But Din refuses to be antagonised by the man.

“I’ll eat back at the village,” he says instead of punching Paz like his fists itch too.

“Leaving so soon?” Paz teases again, clearly not satisfied without getting a reaction.

“You wouldn’t know the toll it takes being away from your _riduur_ ,” Ava defends snidely, and Paz gives her a sneering glare but doesn’t say anything more. Their bickering is half-hearted, Din knows any one of them would take a blaster shot for each other. Paz just lives for the drama, and Ava is never far behind.

“Omera will be happy you’re back,” Ava continues kindly and tucks an arm around her daughter, pissing match with Paz long forgotten. Willa and the twins sit up straighter at the mention of Omera, and it is clear the beautiful widow has made an impression on more Mandalorians that just himself.

He feels his face flare with heat beneath the helmet and doesn’t know how to respond to that, so clears his throat and discusses his plans.

“I’ll set up a direct com between here and the village. I’ll see to your ship, make any repairs I can and then look into what parts it needs.”

“Thank you. The closest of our people are still a few days off, I imagine it’ll be pretty quiet until they get closer,” the Armourer concludes.

“I’ll head off soon then,” he replies, checking the kid is finished before standing from the bench. “The com will only take a few minutes, Cara already wired all the leads.”

She stands too and gives a nod in acknowledgement, and then the twins are fidgeting at his side, looking at each other pensively. Din looks down at them and cocks his head to the side, encouraging them to voice whatever was concerning them.

They hesitate for a moment before Kyan speaks up, “… Can we come with you?”

The question throws Din for a moment and he takes a beat to answer.

“To the village?”

The twins look between each other, then nod eagerly up at him, small smiles on their faces.

He is confused. He knows they’d liked Omera, flocked to her immediately, but he cannot understand them wanting to leave the other Mandalorians, let alone travel with him.

He sends a questioning gaze to the Armourer, but she merely shrugs, “I see no concerns.”

“Okay, but it might be a couple days before I can get you back here. That okay with you?” he asks them, the last thing he wants is for them to be uncomfortable and feel trapped, but they are nodding before he has even finished his sentence.

“Alright then,” he shrugs. “I’ll do the com while you finish your food, then we’ll be off.”

And then they are shoveling the rest of the contents of their bowls into their mouths quickly as he moves off, his lips quirking into a confused smile under his helmet.

…

As predicted, the com takes no time at all, and the Mandalorians crowd the speeder to see him and the twins off. It is with sadness that they say goodbye to Lucian, he protected them for a long time before Paz turned up, and the connection forged between them is clear to see.

“Don’t be sad, I’ll see you guys soon,” he says, crouched down to their height and pulling them in for a _kov’nyn_ between the three of them. “Hang out with the other kids for a bit. It’s gonna be boring here anyway.”

They laugh softly at that and then he is nudging them towards the speeder. At the mention of the village children, Din can see Willa is tempted, her light eyes conflicted, but the comfort of her parents wins out and she stays put, grabbing their gloved hands securely.

“Tell the village thank you,” the Armourer steps forward and offers her arm to him.

He nods and grips it tightly just as Ava pipes up from off to the side, “And don’t keep Omera waiting too long!”

He can tell she must be smiling under the helmet and it warms him to know his choice has been so well accepted. He gives a nod too and swings up onto the speeder behind the kids, checking they are all set before starting forward.

The twins wave back at the Mandalorians, even the kid’s tiny green hand reaches up to wave. They venture down the dirt track until finally turning the corner and the outpost is lost from view. Silence comes over the speeder as it trudges along and Din reclines back against the railing, gazing up at the sky to see the sun having just peaked over the tree tops.

“Thank you for bringing us,” Ryelle says shyly, legs crossed and picking at her skirt. The two are dressed just like the kids of the village, and could easily be mistaken for them and not the children of Mandalorians.

Din gives a nod, “You’re welcome at the village anytime. They’ll be happy you feel comfortable staying with them.”

The twins are surprisingly talkative throughout the trip, asking about the village and how Din found it, and he finds telling them comes naturally. He doesn’t gloss over the raiders like he would have with other children. The twins had been through hell and back since Nevarro, it was a testament to their strength, and he thinks knowing they were not alone in their grief may give them comfort. But he reinforces that the village is safe, that he will always protect it and the villagers, and never let anything like that happen again.

They listen carefully, eyes wide and faces bright, and Din recognises the look because it is the same one all the village children give him too. As if he was some hero. He suppresses a sigh at the realisation, convincing them otherwise would probably go as well as it had on the village, so he saves his breath and lets himself feel the smallest amount of undeserving pride.

Eventually the twins are dozing off, huddled together at his side with the kid nestled between them, and he huffs to himself in humour. No one was immune to the kid’s charm, and Din only wishes he could doze as easily too. He’d sleep well tonight though, and that knowledge was enough.

The track becomes familiar and he knows they are nearing the village, it sends his heart spluttering in his chest to think he will see Omera soon. He imagines her running to the speeder once she spots him, hopes she does because he doubts he will be able to wait patiently.

Will she be shy, awkward, after last night? Will he?

Right now, all he can think about is how much he’s missed her, but seeing her face is likely to bring their conversation from last night slamming into his mind, and he doesn’t know how he will manage to meet her gaze.

He shakes his head at his skittish nerves and takes a steadying breath, stretching an arm along the top of the railing and easing his eyes shut. He is the picture of calm, though it only covers a rolling internal storm.

He hears the sounds of the village first, of cheering children and stacking baskets, the sounds of home. Gently rousing the kids from their sleep, he tells them they are arriving and watches the excitement play across their three faces, sitting bolt upright and scrambling to the speeder edge to watch their approach.

He chuckles to himself and re-secures his weapons belt, adjusts his vambraces, to settle his nerves.

The speeder slows as it travels down the path into the village, farmers hard at work but sending him kind waves and calls of ‘welcome back’, in between hauls of krill.

He can’t spot Omera or Cara for all his searching, but does see the village children eagerly running to his position. The twins send him nervously excited smiles, small and hindered, but smiles nonetheless, and he swings down from the speeder to encourage them to do the same.

He just manages to turn around when a small body slams into him, thin arms wrapping snuggly around his middle. He grunts as the wind is knocked from him and he takes a step back to right his balance as he looks down into Winta’s grinning face.

Clearly following her encouragement, the other kids pile in behind her until he is encased in a vice of children’s arms, their excited chatter white noise in their pitch.

“Hey,” he huffs in humour, awkwardly patting whoever’s back he can reach, and they release him to peer at the twins hesitating by the speeder behind him.

Before he can encourage them forward, Winta is bounding over to them with a toothy grin, a couple other kids following her.

“You came back!” she says excitedly to the twins, who return a somewhat nervous smile. “We’re finishing lessons soon then we’re going swimming. Can you swim?”

They look to Din quickly before shaking their heads at Winta. There just hadn’t been the opportunity to teach the children of the tribe in recent years, it hadn’t been a necessity, as it so clearly was for a village surrounded by krill ponds.

“That’s okay,” she replies brightly, jerking a thumb to the boy at her side. “Wes can’t either, he still squeals like a baby when he gets dunked!”

“Shut up! I do not–” the poor kid sulks, elbowing a cheeky-looking Winta.

“ _Winta_ ,” a gentle voice scolds that has the girl apologising in good nature, wrapping an arm around her friend to show no hard feelings.

And that is all he is aware of because he turns to see Omera making her way towards them, his attention focused on her now. He is vaguely aware of the village kids stepping around him to join in greeting his companions, and he steps forward to meet Omera halfway.

“Hey,” she breathes, all pinkened cheeks and fleeting eyes, and he isn’t even in control of his body as an arm reaches for her, fingers skimming up her arm and cradling the back of her neck.

She steps into the embrace easily, holding his wrist to her gently and leaning in.

“Hey,” he whispers in return and touches his helmet to her forehead tenderly.

The sigh she blows out through smiling lips is relieved, and she nudges into him with a firmer pressure as she squeezes her eyes shut.

He exhales shakily, and reluctantly drops his hand as he pulls away, laughing softly as she makes a sound of frustration. He is conscious of the kids around, his son and her daughter included, but they all seem rather preoccupied anyway.

She gives him a soft smile and squeeze to his elbow before she too steps around him to greet the twins. They instantly perk up at her attention as she kneels to their height, speaking gently with them as Din watches on with pride swelling his chest. The kid thrills at her side in Winta’s arms, never one to miss all the action, and giggles when she turns to him.

“Hello to you too, _ad’ika_ ,” she laughs, stroking a flapping ear and Din feels his heart thump at the sight of his _aliit_ , together again as it should be.

When the greetings are all done, the village children are called back to their lessons, taking the twins with them and leaving Din and Omera to unload the few belongings from the speeder.

“Swimming?” he asks as they walk further into the village.

“Yeah,” she nods, grinning over at him. “We had a surprisingly productive week considering all the work at the outpost. And it’s likely to be our last chance to go swimming before the seasons change and it gets too cold.”

“Sorgan gets cold?” he says before he realises how stupid that sounds, it was Winta’s namesake for one, and he had noticed the nights getting colder since returning from Pyreen.

“Not too bad. We can still work in the ponds, but the lake is deep, so it gets pretty cold.”

He nods as they near the barn and he tries to work up the courage to mention something about keeping her warm again in between giving returning ‘hellos’ to the people that pass them.

“Cold at night too. But I’ve got you, right?” she says softly, shyly, knocking his shoulder with her own playfully as they step up onto the porch.

“You do,” he agrees thickly, wishing not for the first time that saying things, as she just had, came easily to him too.

Either way, she seems pleased at his response before her face falls and she has to excuse herself to finish her work quickly so that they can get ready for the trip to the lake.

“We will leave within an hour. Will you come too? Your boy enjoyed himself last time.”

He hums and she gives a lingering kiss to his helmet cheek before darting off to the krill shed and leaving him a mess of hormones in her wake.

He wills his mind to clear and he steps into the familiar barn, a sense of home hitting him as he sets the small crate of belongings on the bench near the entrance. Gazing out through the opening of the shutters there, he sees the little one amongst the village children as they file into the hall, Ryelle and Kyan so integrated into their group that it takes him a moment to be able to point them out.

The sight brings a smile to his face and he figures he might as well hang around while he waits for the village to be ready to head off. He packs what he thinks they’ll need at the lake, a change of clothes for the twins and another robe and collection of toys for the kid. He slings the satchel over his back and grabs the jet pack as an afterthought as he heads out into the sun.

He now notices Cara crouched down near a com tower by the hall, nimble fingers expertly threading wires.

“Hey, stranger!” she calls when he steps up to her, gives a wink, then returns her focus to her work. “You’re back earlier than I would have thought. I’m nearly finished up with this then we should be up and running. Head on in, I won’t be long.”

He thanks her and decides it is probably best to leave her to concentrate when dealing with live wires, so he heads into the hall to see the kids sitting in small groups at the far end. He recognises Pippa leading the lesson, calling out quick instructions to the kids before walking over to perch on a stool near the cooking area.

Another woman pops up from behind a bench with a large bowl and continues with her work while striking up conversation. Her name escapes him, but he recognises her as the woman Omera had stayed with the other night, and when she sees him hovering near the entrance, she gives a kind smile and waves him over.

“Good morning, it’s good to have you back,” Pippa says kindly when he steps up to them, and she pulls out the stool beside her in offering.

“Good to be back,” he nods, setting the satchel and jetpack on the bench before sitting, then turning to gaze out at the kids. Ryelle spots him and gives a little smile before returning to the conversation sweeping through the group around her.

The two women make small talk, including Din from time to time, and he is relieved when Pippa reveals the other woman’s name is Heidi, without Din having to ask.

Amidst the conversation, an elderly woman approaches their small group and the two women turn to greet her while Din automatically slides off his stool to offer her a seat. She shakes him off with a warm smile, and instead gives him an offering; a neatly folded bundle on her outstretched arms. She doesn’t say anything, and he remembers he hasn’t heard her _ever_ say anything, but her smile and insistent gesturing makes it clear enough. She was giving him a gift.

As a Mandalorian, he is used to non-verbal cues, so accepts her offering with both hands, giving a gentle nod in acknowledgement as the heavy material settles into his grasp.

Her smile widens, eyes crinkling until they are nearly closed, and she touches the intricate design of her woven collar, more complex and intertwined than any he’s seen on the other village women. She reaches to the bundle across his arms, and he realises it is a blanket as she flips the top folded piece back to reveal a woven border along the top.

She reaches a gentle hand to the centre of his chest plate and he fights the instinct to flinch away, to protect himself, because he knows this is a part of their custom, and he might as well start getting used to it. With eyes gently shut she mouths something, no sound coming out and although his lip-reading skills are limited at best, he thinks he gets the gist.

“With this knot we bind you,” he utters almost in question, glancing at Pippa and Heidi quickly for confirmation.

Nodding, they echo him softly with gentle smiles, and the elderly woman smiles wider. She steps to the side and points a shaking finger out to all the kids sitting, and Din follows the line of her finger until he spots the little one amongst the group. A gift for his son.

“Thank you,” he nods and indicates to the blanket.

She leaves shortly thereafter, but not before giving a quick parting bow to Pippa and Heidi too.

Once she is out of ear shot, Heidi gives a low whistle that draws his attention, “Well, if you’ve won Merida over then you’re doing better than half the men in his village.”

Din looks up from the blanket in his arms and settles back down onto the stool, opens his mouth to ask her to clarify, but Pippa is doing so anyway.

“She’s very particular, so she must be pretty taken with you. It’s tradition, a blanket is given at birth, these woven threads are for protection and guidance. She’s made it for your boy, since he wouldn’t have had one already,” she explains, a sad smile on her face as her brows furrow at the thread work. “The thread pattern is very unique. It has been with our village since the beginning, for generations. But it’s rather challenging to learn. We worry we might lose it in years to come.”

She sits back with a sigh and Din looks to the kids, then out to where he can see the farmers bustling around outside through the entrance to the hall.

“I noticed there are few elders here,” he observes, there were only really a handful, and the loss of traditions and culture through the generations was something Mandalorians were more than accustomed to.

He knew there was no more of Omera’s blood family here, it was something that had struck him when he debated on how to ask her to be his formally. There were no parents to get a blessing from, no grandparents. But there was a village that had a bond just as strong, and Winta’s approval was the blessing he sought the most.

“We lost most of them a few years back…” Heidi begins as she shares a quick look with Pippa.

He doesn’t really know what else he expected, but the news stops him short as he snaps his helmet to them, mind working through the different scenarios of why that might be, and all concluding with one.

“The raiders…?” he asks quietly.

He and Cara had arrived in the height of it, but he doesn’t know for how long they had lived under constant fear before that. A few of the villagers hadn’t made it out of the fight that night they took down the walker. The wildflower field at the outer edge of the village was a constant reminder of that. But how many had they lost even before his and Cara’s arrival?

But Pippa shakes her head quickly, sympathy in her eyes, “No, no. They never… We would run, never fought back before, so they took our harvest and destroyed our huts. Nothing more.”

It is somewhat of a relief, to know that hadn’t been the end of their older population, but he feels so much worse anyway, for he had been the one to suggest they fight back. To this day, he thinks about how much better off Sorgan might have been if he’d never set foot on its soil, let alone entered their village.

He struggles with what to say, so stays silent, and Heidi leans across the bench and taps the space in front of him to draw his attention, “We never fought back, but we were never free like we are now, we owe you so much.”

The kindness in her eyes does little to settle his self-loathing, but he appreciates the gesture.

“We had a bad Winter,” Pippa explains. “A lot of us got sick, and some just couldn’t fight it. We couldn’t finish our harvest, so we couldn’t afford the medicine. But we were fortunate, a few of the other villages on Sorgan got hit much worse. We had just recovered from that when the Klatooinians arrived.”

“I’m sorry,” he struggles, unable to express his frustrations that a people as pure as this village still had to deal with the darkness of the galaxy.

And Pippa just shrugs sadly, the resilience and spirit of these people truly unmatched.

“Our people are tied here. So, they may be gone, but they are among our stars and will always be with us,” she says with a small smile that widens as her eyes catch something at the entrance. “And they would be pleased to know you too have maybe found ties here…?”

She trails off suggestively, though not at all how Cara does so with a smirk and mischief, as he follows her line of sight to see Omera enter the hall.

“Yes,” Din utters, watching as Omera’s face lightens in laughter at something Cara has said at her side.

He barely sees the knowing look Pippa and Heidi share, his focus solely on Omera as she notices him too, her smile widening and pace quickening as she crosses the room to them.

“Ready to go?” she asks excitedly with a wide smile, stepping up close to where he sits as she sweeps her gaze over their small group.

He physically has to grip the blanket in his arms tighter to refrain from tugging her closer.

“We’re all set,” Pippa confirms with a grin, moving off to round up the kids.

Soon everyone is seemingly swept up in the excitement of a bit of respite from the work of a krill farm.

And Din just thinks he’ll always follow this woman anywhere.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swimming and jetpack rides! But it gives a false sense of peace...

Pippa has moved off to usher the children out of the hall to get ready for the trip to the lake, and Winta skips over to where he sits with Omera and Heidi, his son nestled in her arms and the twins not far behind.

Omera stands tight up against his side, the warmth of her body radiating on the outside of his thigh. He wonders if she feels how he widens his knees a bit further just to press against her more. He holds the gifted blanket in his lap, glad to have something to occupy his hands with otherwise he is certain he would be finding any excuse to touch her. Rest a hand to the small of her back, take her hand, pull her down until she settles on his knee where she fits so perfectly.

“You’re coming too, right?” Winta asks excitedly with a playful tilt to her head, and it thankfully cuts his train of thought short.

He gives a nod and sees as her grin widens, then looks beyond her to Ryelle and Kyan, “I’ve packed for you too. It’ll be a good opportunity to learn.”

They look understandably apprehensive, but he can also see the excitement beyond that. Looking back at Winta, he sees as her eyes catch on the bench and light up exponentially.

“Are you bringing your jetpack?!” she barely gets out, stepping up closer to him and peering across at the bench. “Do I get to have a ride?”

He watches the fascination play across her features, so similar to her mother’s, as her eyes trail over its design, he feels his lips quirk. Even Omera seems curious, leaning around him and long hair falling over her shoulder to brush his arm. She places a steadying hand just above his knee, and the warmth of her palm seeps through the thick layers of his clothing.

His stomach coils at her proximity and the knowledge that he might finally get to live his dream from the night before. To careen through the air with her wrapped around him, pressed impossibly tight against the beskar and small puffs of exhilarated breath teasing under the edge of his helmet.

He thinks maybe he will even remove his cloak too. For safety.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, angling his head to look up into Omera’s face, now inches from his own, and she smiles shyly down at him before leaning back, though she leaves her hand on his leg.

Winta is ecstatic, and he is just barely aware of her gushing to the twins and dragging them off with the excuse of getting ready. Heidi has strategically decided to move further into the kitchen area with the other workers, their presence only noticed in distance chatter and the dull clunking of utensils. It is oddly intimate how it leaves him and Omera alone, yet also _not_ alone.

He pushes up from the railing at the foot of the stool to adjust his position, about to swivel towards her, but she retracts her hand with a gentle apology written across her face. He closes his eyes in frustration at himself as he realises his mistake, he doesn’t want her to think he was uncomfortable with her touch, but surely he did just that.

He remedies it by turning towards her like he’d planned, gently adjusting a knee around her form until she stands directly before him. He shifts the gifted blanket onto one knee and rests a hand on his other knee in offering, palm up and helmet tipping sideways in encouragement.

A small smile washes the worry from her pinkened cheeks and she slides delicate fingers over his palm to hold his wrist. He encases her wrist gently too and gives a very subtle nudge, inviting her into the space between his legs before he can think better of it. She follows so willingly that he fights to keep his breathing in check, wills himself to stay calm and not clam up like his body wants to.

“Where’d this come from?” she asks softly, brow furrowed at the blanket in his lap and leaning her weight against the security of his leg. She runs her free hand over the fabric and it brings a gentle smile to her lips as her fingers drift over the thread work. He is very conscious of her touch, separated from his body by the thick blanket, but he still finds himself on high alert, convincing his mind that he can feel the heated trail of her caress anyway.

“Merida gave it to me,” he explains thickly, glad he at least remembered the woman’s name with the onslaught of sensations her closeness brings, and he clears his throat to continue. “A gift for the kid.”

Her eyes widen in understanding and he thinks the pink in her cheeks perhaps deepens as she looks anywhere but at him. He misunderstands a lot at the best of times, so he doesn’t have a hope in hell of deciphering what this look means. But it doesn’t matter because they can hear the distant call of Pippa from outside, announcing they are leaving in a minute.

Omera breathes a disappointed smile and looks into his visor as she steps back reluctantly, “Sounds like we’re off.”

He hums back and lets her tug him by his hand until he is standing, giving a quick squeeze to his fingers before releasing them all together. He retrieves the jetpack and satchel and they make their way out into the sunlight to join the others.

He breaks off to take the blanket to the barn while they get themselves organised, placing it in the kid’s crib before quickening his pace to catch up with the group as they get ready to leave the village. He can see Cara amongst the thick of it, a bunch of the kids dancing around her and Omera laughing at her side with _ad’ika_ in her arms. Din falls in beside them and then they are off to the lake.

It is an easy walk that the village is familiar with. Cara is too as she easily charges to the front of the lagging group, tossing insults back at everyone for their lacking stamina, all the while with a beaming grin on her face.

Omera looks to him and rolls her eyes. She, along with everyone else, is very clearly used to Cara’s antics.

Easy conversation flows through the group and he is content to just listen, especially as Omera talks with Ryelle and Kyan. The twins come out of their shell easily in her presence, with the whole village actually, and it relieves Din to see some of the damage from Nevarro begin to heal.

Amidst their conversation, the kid attempts to join in, garbling nonsensically from where he is perched up high in Omera’s arms, and she eggs him on with soft hums and acknowledgement all the while.

A game of tag sweeps through the group and the kids are once again running circuits around the adults, the twins drawn in too. They seem mostly unused to the games of the village children, but they pick up the principles quickly and don’t hesitate to use their Mandalorian training to their advantage, able to outrun and anticipate the others easily. And the other kids just seem impressed, laughing as they are beaten again and again.

Eventually excited chatter filters down the group to where him and Omera are taking up the rear, trees thinning to shrubbery and then opening out to a large clearing of pale sandy shores. The lake is vast and a deep teal, with a collection of small, shallow pools intermittently breaking up the shoreline.

He is mesmerised by the beauty of it, and so are the twins as they stand still to take it all in. Even the kid in Omera’s arms seems to recognise the area, and he looks up into her face and chirps excitedly. “Yeah? You remember, don’t you?” she chuckles softly back at him, bouncing him gently in her arms and glancing over at Din with a breath-taking smile.

He smiles back beneath the helmet, and although she cannot see it, he likes to think she knows anyway. She begins towards one of the shallower ponds as the kids are all herded over to the waters’ edge at the main lake, instructions rattled off by one of the farmers as the other adults get into the water.

For all the twin’s excitement at the sight of the lake, they still seem nervous, loitering at Din’s side instead of joining the other kids as they dash into the water once given the go ahead. He notices a few of the village children seem hesitant too, wading into the water cautiously. But then Cara goes bounding up to them, shouting a quick warning with a devilish grin before throwing herself over onto her back, and they get swept up in the tidal wave she creates with her boisterous behaviour.

The once cautious kids are now frolicking around her, splashing and carrying on, and she floats along beside them, encouraging them on until they join the rest of the kids out in the depths.

He huffs in humour and sees as the twins chuckle between themselves beside him. Cara goes to great lengths to make it known that she doesn’t ‘do the kid thing’, though judging by the look of her now, she manages pretty well.

Glancing at the twins again, he can see they look somewhat more intrigued, but figures they’ll join in when they’re ready. So they hang around with Omera for the time being, and Din eases himself to sit down at her side on the sand, arms draped over his bent up knees.

She lets the kid toddle along, heavy footed and splashing excitedly with no fear. Din is content to just watch her and listen to the exhilarated babbling of the kid. When she progresses him into the deeper parts of the little pond they’ve settled at, careful hands guiding him to float and paddle, the kid is constantly throwing his head back to glance Din’s way. Big eyes and grinning cheeks suggesting the kid was clearly proud of himself, and he is checking to make sure Din is watching.

“Very good, _ad’ika_ ,” he murmurs, because clearly that is what the Womp Rat is fishing for. The kid beams back at him before focusing his attention back on Omera, who he has succeeded in thoroughly soaking with his flailing arms and feet.

She doesn’t seem to mind, the kid’s excitement infectious until even the twins are amused, bare feet dipped into the pond and kicking lightly in the cool water.

When Omera asks him if he wants to take a turn holding the kid, support him in the water, Din feels his fingers twitch with the desire to, but he declines gently, not wanting to spoil the peaceful picture they create without him.

She smiles in understanding, but he wonders if it is disappointment he sees in her eyes. He wouldn’t be surprised, it was about time she caught on to what a useless father he is.

He pushes the negative thoughts from his mind and focusses on the simpler things. Like how she looks radiant even as streams of water run down her cheeks and droplets cling to her hair, her gentle laughter bubbling in the air amongst the distant cheering and splashing of the other kids in the lake. A squeal every now and then pierces through the air, followed by ruckus laughter, and he sees Cara is the culprit, sneaking up on unsuspecting kids and tackling them into the water. The adults don’t seem to mind so much that she is interrupting their lessons, just merely laugh it off and continue in stride.

Back in the shallow pond, eventually the kid tires, and Omera wraps him in a blanket with practiced ease, tucking his little hands in and soothing him with a gentle sway.

“Do you want to swim now?” she asks softly of the twins, a gentle smile offered at their hesitance. “I’ll come in with you, if you’d like?”

And that’s all the encouragement they need. The smile she gives is relieved, and he moves to take the sleeping kid from her arms so that she can venture out to the lake with the twins in tow. They meet Cara on the way as she is returning from terrorising the kids, shaking out her choppy hair and purposefully spraying the three of them in a shower of lake-water. Omera gives her a jovial push to her shoulder and continues on unphased.

“Wanna spot me for my drills?” he asks Cara when she stops in front of him.

“As long as it’s not babysitting duty,” she snorts, swooping down to pick up the jetpack and jerking her chin to the edge of the clearing. “Come on then.”

He gets to his feet and moves off too, stopping by a few of the village woman to ask if they wouldn’t mind watching the kid while he slept. Unsurprisingly, they are more than happy to help, and then Din is off to follow Cara to a less populated area of the clearing.

He has the foresight to yank his cloak off, bundle it carefully by a tree, and secure the pack over his backplate. Then he is running through the drills he has done countless times by now, but working through getting used to the manoeuvres since it has been sometimes since he last had the chance to practice.

As usual, Cara calls encouragements from the ground, praising his form and adding snippets of advice. He casts his gaze intermittently to the lake, watching as Omera floats with the twins, huddled close and speaking amongst themselves easily. When Cara scolds him for getting distracted, he bites back half-heartedly.

He runs his drills a few more times, concentrating so intently now that when he comes down to land after a particularly long set, he doesn’t even realise Omera has joined Cara in observing.

He straightens from his crouch and stops dead in his tracks as he sees her, hands clasped behind her back with a shy smile. He barely sees Cara roll her eyes with a snort, making some excuse about going off to check on… _something_ , and he makes his way over to Omera.

A quick glance into the lake shows that the twins have joined the other kids whole-heartedly in the lake, listening intently to the instructions of the adults and learning quickly.

Omera is wringing wet, obviously having squeezed out as much water as she could from her skirts, but the fabric still clings to her form and has his throat suddenly drying up. He feels his face heat, the cool breeze prickling at the back of his bare neck, and he now has mixed feelings about removing the cloak, because surely there was no disguising his flushed skin, let alone the rapid thrum of his pulse.

He stops before her and tips his head to the side as he clears his throat, “Wanna come for a ride?”

He wonders if his voice had come out as stiff as it sounded in his own head, but her face lights up either way and she is stepping towards him too. She looks nervous, but also excited, and he is much the same.

“As long as you don’t mind that I’m all wet,” she laughs, drawing her thick hair over a shoulder, twisting it into one long tendril before expertly gathering it all up into a mass at the nape of her neck. “Sorry, I should have thought before I went swimming.”

“Fine by me,” he says lowly, gravitating closer to her than strictly necessary, and getting a thrill at the way her eyes seem to darken at his proximity. It all suddenly feels very intimate and he wonders it this wasn’t such a good idea in front of the vast majority of the village.

She breathes a nervous ‘okay’, and he directs her of the best way to grab onto him. For safety, always for safety, and she complies with a nervous giggle.

He takes her hands in his own and guides them up to circle around his neck where she instantly laces her fingers together. Drifting his hand down to wrap around her waist, a firm hand against her shoulder blades has her stumbling in closer, stepping clumsily on the toes of his boots with a breathless apology.

He hums gently to wave off her apology, completely enthralled to see her so affected.

Bending quickly at the knee, he uses his other arm to wrap around both her legs, hoisting her up so the bend of her knees is at his hip and he has a firm grip on the back of her thighs. She makes a soft noise of surprise and clings on tighter around his neck, her cool fingers and fanning breath making the short hairs stand on end. But the feeling of her in his arms at the moment is so right, even as his heart pounds erratically. Her wet clothes seep through his own and it is a welcome relief from the way his whole body is flaring.

“It doesn’t seem right that I finally get to be close to you again, and it’s in front of everyone,” she laughs gently, looking down between them and avoiding his visor.

He tenderly butts his helmet against her cheek to get her attention, and she looks to him then, the sunlight playing across her features and turning her eyes amber.

“We can remedy that later,” he murmurs back in a voice stronger than he feels, wondering where this bold edge has come from, but relishing in the way it makes her face flush pink. He fires up the jetpack and holds her tighter. “Ready?”

She looks nervous, but the trust in her eyes is plain to see as she gives a confident nod. He lifts off from the ground, gently at first, but it still startles her, and she grips him tighter, craning her neck to look past his shoulder as the ground gets further and further away.

And she laughs, incredulous and amazed.

“You okay?” he asks over the firing of the jetpack and the rushing of air, and when she nods eagerly, it is all the encouragement he needs to pick up the speed.

She squeals in delight, a noise he has never heard from her before, but it is addictive and he chases it, getting more courageous with his movements and chuckling along with her lowly. When he does a particularly quick dip, she squeezes impossibly close and buries her face in his neck. The cold tip of her nose nudges under the edge of his helmet, and her lips spread into a smile that has her teeth scraping along his sensitised skin. The sensation makes his knees weak, and thankfully this is the one time he doesn’t need their support.

He thinks he could never get tired of hearing her thrilled screaming or the way she squirms, holds him tightly, as if her life depends on it. And, well, it _does_. But he will never drop her, never let her fall.

As much fun as it all is, he knows what she will appreciate the most, so he corrects his positioning until they are upright and quickly ascends high over the treetops. She braces herself against him, body rigid in his arms from being wound so tight. At the peak of the upward climb, he nudges her gently with his helmet again to get her to open her eyes and take in the sight. Of Sorgan stretched out before them, sunlight piercing down without a cloud in sight, lush greenery broken up only by intermittent grassy clearings and shimmering lakes and rivers of teal.

He slowly rotates them in their position, and she is pulling her head back, whipping around to take in all the sight has to offer before finally setting her gaze on his visor. The thrill is still plain in her features, but her wide grin slips into a small twitch of a smile, eyes alight as they run over his helmet.

“Thank you, Din,” she whispers softly, easing her eyes shut to place a lingering kiss to the visor over where his lips tingle with the echo of her own.

He pulls her closer against his chest if possible, savouring the feeling for a moment before the opportunity is too good to pass up, and he rotates into a quick dive down that has her laugh flitting through the air and across the clearing. He pulls up well short of the ground and eases down at a much more acceptable pace.

When his feet touch the ground, he releases Omera’s legs carefully, swallowing thickly at the way she slides down his body until her own feet toe at the ground, though she clings to him for a moment longer anyway. Her face is still pressed into his neck, and she uses the opportunity to gift him with a gentle kiss of smiling lips. And he wants to fling the helmet off right then and there so he can kiss her properly.

When they finally step apart, Winta is waiting patiently on the side-lines, waterlogged hair plastered to the side of her head. His suit is soaked to his skin with the evidence of Omera, and there is a cold rush of air without the warmth of her body. He is completely intoxicated by her presence, but the expectant look on her daughter’s face reminds him that he has a promise to keep, and that is all he needs to compose himself.

He looks to Omera for confirmation, and when she gives a nod, he can’t hinder the swell of pride he feels that she trusts him so completely. He turns his gaze to Winta, hands slung on his hips and an expectant tilt to his helmet.

“My turn?” She beams, bobbing on her spot but holding back until he gives her a nod, and then she is charging at him with a cry of excitement.

She slams into him and he feels a half laugh escape him as he corrects his posture before crouching down to get a firm grip around her. He lifts her easily onto his hip and she wraps her arms tightly around his neck, her dress just as sodden as Omera’s had been, but he’s mostly soaked now anyway.

“Careful of the pack, I don’t want you to get burned,” he tells her gently, making sure her outside arm is tucked up high on his shoulders, away from the pack cylinders, and guiding the other to grip the edge of his chest plate. “Hold here. Tight. Ready?”

“Uh-huh!” she nods eagerly, throwing a grin back over her shoulder at Omera, and he lifts off the ground.

He takes it easy at first, getting used to her weight and making sure she is comfortable, and when he asks her if she wants to go faster, she is grinning wildly and urging him on. She hoots and shrieks in joy with the thrill of it, and he finds himself smiling behind the helmet.

“Go, go, go!” she exclaims, releasing his chest plate for a second to point a finger to where the others are still swimming, then fumbling to grasp it again with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. “Whoa!”

He huffs in humour, he has a good hold of her even if she lets go entirely, but she clings to him tightly nonetheless, and the devil gets in him.

So he flies over to the lake, swooping down close to the surface before arching up into the sky and circling back.

“Do you want to go for a swim?” he teases the second time, jolting his arms around her for a split second every now and then as if to drop her.

She squeals each time he does it, wrapping tighter around him and shaking her head urgently, but he gets the feeling she likes the thrill of it.

When he finishes the circuit a fourth time, she decides she _does_ want to go for a swim, even begging him to drop her into the depths. He asks if she’s sure, and laughs with the crazy girl as she yells ‘yes!’

“This time then,” he calls over the whirring air and exhaust of the jetpack as he rounds back.

He slows to a hover and corrects his position a couple of metres above the water. He moves her off his hip to hold her under her arms and dangle her over the lake in front of him.

“Hold your breath,” he instructs, grunting against the strain of holding her form out from his body, and she grins as she uses a hand to block her nose. “Tuck your legs up. Ready?”

She is so excited that her nod is erratic, body quivering in anticipation, and he checks that they are just clear of the other onlooking swimmers before he drops her into the water with a big splash. He hovers close by to watch as she surfaces, spluttering water and arms flailing, but she is laughing gleefully.

And then it becomes a game. Picking up kids from the shore-line and launching up over the lake to drop them into the depths. Eventually he has to remove his drenched gloves and vambraces, passing them to a grinning Cara, so that he has a better grip on the kids, as they surely aren’t done yet. He has thoroughly distracted them from their swimming lesson and there is no hope of continuing, but the farmers don’t seem to mind. They watch on, either from in the water or on the sand, all the while laughing along with the kids.

Even Ryelle and Kyan partake, and Din just hopes they don’t bring it up too often at the Covert, that he used his jetpack for amusement rather than training.

He tells the kids that this will be the last time about five times before he really does stop, despite the chorus of grumbles from them. As excited as they are, he can also tell they are exhausted and don’t protest for long.

If he’s honest, he is pretty tired too. And hungry.

The kids all dry off and get packed up, and Omera brings the little one over to him, sleeping away and bundled up in his cloak. She smiles sweetly as she passes the boy over and Din tucks him into the crook of his arm for the journey back.

“You’re soaked,” she observes, pressing a palm to his abdomen and gazing up into his visor in concern.

He presses a bare hand over hers, holding her hand to him as his abdomen muscles spasm at her touch, a fluttering deep in his gut at the warmth of her.

“Worth it,” he utters, and it comes out husky.

Her eyes snap to their hands, a soft inhale through her teeth and a flush overtaking her face. She splays her fingers against him and shyly avoids his gaze as he threads his fingers through the gaps she’s created. He watches, fascinated, as her eyes trail his hand and forearm, the pink in her cheeks reddening further.

And then he remembers their com call, and he is flushing just as deep as she is.

* * *

Omera finds Merida later that afternoon while everyone is playing catch up from the trip to the lake. After returning, they had all had a late lunch before getting back into the swing of things, Din’s stomach grumbling loudly much to his embarrassment. She’d all but had to force him to quickly have something to eat in the barn before leaving.

Shortly after, he had taken the twins with him to his ship to assess what kind of repairs were needed to the Mandalorian’s ship. The rest of the children were occupied in afternoon lessons, though the topic of conversation kept cycling back around to how ‘cool Din looked’ with his jetpack.

She smiles fondly as she passes their huddled forms in the hall and settles in across from Merida at a bench.

“I saw the blanket you gave Din’s boy,” she begins with a smile. “Thank you. It meant a lot to him.”

The older woman’s lips curl into a smile too, though there is a knowing glint in her wise eyes as she takes a hold of Omera’s hand.

Merida cradles it gently in both of hers, turning it over and spreading the fingers wide as she traces along the creases of her palm. Lastly, she trails a shaking index finger down Omera’s little finger, circling the joint at the base.

Omera knows what she isn’t saying, what she _never_ says. Before she’d even had Winta, Merida had shown her how her palm spoke of more than just one child. It had been a source of happiness when she’d fallen pregnant with Winta, to think her future was destined to have a larger family. When her husband had died, she accepted that Winta would be her only, she was lucky to have been gifted with her alone, and Merida never read her palm again. Until now.

The realisation has her flushing and stomach fluttering at the thought. Of course she’d entertained the thought, had so many times since meeting Din. That perhaps Winta wouldn’t be her only. And Merida winks just in case Omera hadn’t quite caught on.

She breathes a laugh and shakes her head at the older woman in good nature, bringing her other hand up to hold Merida’s frail ones within her own.

“Don’t you go meddling,” she says sternly, though there is a gentleness to her voice, and the older woman just shrugs innocently. Omera quirks her brow with a knowing smirk. “Was your gift twofold?”  
Merida smiles in conspiracy and eases a hand up to pat her cheek before moving off, sending a wink over her shoulder once more. Omera cannot help the giddy grin that stretches her cheeks even as she sighs at the woman’s stubbornness.

She pushes the thought aside and moves off to get to work like the rest of the village. So she ends up sitting with Heidi by the krill shed, regaling their adventures at the lake since the other woman had been designated to stay behind at the village. They make small talk and the time passes easily between them.

And she can tell something is wrong the minute Din returns with the Mandalorian children, his shoulders set in a rigid line and their faces pale. They are pacing abruptly down the main path into the village, and she can see even from this distance that they speak amongst themselves in urgent tones.

She turns to Heidi at her side, the other woman having noticed their approach too, and they share a quick look of concern before abandoning the baskets they are repairing and rushing to meet them halfway.

“Din?” she asks, willing her voice to be strong, but it comes out as a broken croak regardless. Her eyes flit between his tense form, chest heaving with rapid breaths that she thinks is only partly attributed to the walk back here, and the frantic edge to the twin’s eyes.

She steps closer and extends a calming hand, “What’s happened…?”

“Can I leave the twins with the village for a few days?” he asks, hand twitching at his side, shaking fingers settling over his blaster at his hip in nerves.

Her brow knits in confusion but she nods quickly anyway, “Of course.”

“The Mandalorians received a distress signal. A few of our people ran into trouble a couple of days from here,” he explains, a nervous edge to his voice and she stops in her tracks, hand falling away as he continues. “… I have to go.”

Her heart stutters in her heavy chest and she glances to the twins who are looking between each other, the boy worrying his bottom lip and the small girl looking as if she is barely holding it all together.

She cannot think straight, her knees feeling as though they may give out and heat pricking behind her eyes as she fights to keep tears from collecting there. Heidi steps forward with a gentle hand to her back, grounding her and snapping her from the kaleidoscope of pain her mind is throwing at her. Memories of her husband leaving, the images her mind conjures to torture her of his last moments that she never witnessed.

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts and focuses on Din, giving a strong nod, “Okay.”

She holds an arm out to the children, beckoning them forward, and would feel happiness stir within her that they do so without pause, if her insides weren’t rolling with nausea. They turn back to send Din a pleading look over their shoulders, the girl uttering something quickly in their language that Omera doesn’t understand. But she does understand the wavering and fear she can hear in the girl’s soft voice.

Din gives a firm nod, and then Heidi is gathering the twins and leading them back into the village. She shoots Omera a saddened look, her normally sunny face shrouded with worry, and then she is turning away too, speaking soft reassurances to the small Mandalorians.

Omera watches them go, then turns her gaze back to Din, taking a half step closer to place a firm hand to his elbow, staring into his visor.

“Go,” she urges, her other hand reaching up too until both her hands are curled around each of his arms.

He nods, but she can tell a war is waging within him as he fumbles, stepping into her and shaky hands coming up to enclose the backs of her arms too. It breaks her heart to see him struggling, such a contrast to the certainty with which he’d held her at the lake.

She swallows against the lump in her throat and edges closer to him.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though it was anything but. She reaches a gentle hand to the cheek of his helmet, stroking over the cool surface, but her thumb feels the barely-there stubble, eyes seeing the kindness of his own as if the helmet isn’t even there. “It’s okay. Just be careful. I’ll be here waiting.”

He steps impossibly closer, so she is gathered against his chest, and he clears his throat lowly, his voice coming out raw and stilted, “When I get back… we need… I…”

He’d always spoken with purpose, taken the time to gather his composure, but now it is a jumbled mess of half thought out responses, each getting more desperate.

But then he seems to give up and just presses his helmet firmly to her forehead, and she doesn’t need any words. She moves both her hands to hold the helmet, rocking up onto her toes and nudging firmly back into him before withdrawing an inch to look deep into the visor.

She can’t see his eyes through the blackness, but she knows he watches her intently. She doesn’t know what he needs, what he had meant to say but couldn’t get his lips to comply, but it doesn’t matter, and it never has.

“Anything,” she tells him.

She swears she can hear the shaking inhale through his teeth before he is uttering off a string of mando’a. She cannot hope to understand it, though he speaks so urgently as if he needs her to.

It sounds vaguely familiar, not the usual short phrases and singular words she is used to, and she feels her face crumple in regret, shaking her head desperately at not understanding.

“Din, I don’t know what that…,” she trails off anxiously, he seems so desperate for her to get it and it breaks her heart that she doesn’t.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says with broken words, translates, she thinks, and she nods eagerly.

“Okay. I…,” she trails off. She _what_? She loves him. The words nearly spill, telling him how much he means to her, how much it all means to her, but she bites her tongue to hold them back. This was not the time. “Be safe. Come back to us.”

Back to the village, to his clan, to _her_.

“Always,” he utters, pulling her in and holding her in a gentle headbutt for a moment longer before stepping back and turning away to head to his ship.

A tear trails down her cheek and she quickly swipes it away. She watches his retreat for a second, but it is too painful, her fractured heart stuttering, so she turns back to the village and into the saddened faces of her people. Heidi has obviously updated everyone, and they all watch on in sympathy.

Watch as her soul is ripped from her in the form of a fading armour-clad bounty hunter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jet pack rides as promised! Been working my way up to it since like, chapter 8, or something! Hope it delivered! As always, thank you so so so much for reading ❤️❤️❤️


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din is gone and everyone tries to pick up the pieces.

“What’d I miss?” Cara asks upon her return hours later, when dinner is a sombre affair in the hall.

It is unusually quiet during a meal time that would have normally been filled with easy conversation and relaxation after a hard day at work in the ponds. But there is only the dull sound of cutlery on wooden bowls and the low hum of uttered conversations.

It was surely bad luck that Cara had decided to venture into town after getting back from the lake. If not, Cara would have been able to go with Din and it may have eased Omera’s worry a little. She hates the thought of him going off alone, there hadn’t even been time to discuss where he was going and what he’d be walking in to.

“Din’s people are in trouble,” she tells her friend softly when the table she sits at remains silent. “Off-world somewhere. He’s gone to help them.”

Concern is clear in Cara’s deep gaze as she swings her legs over the bench to settle beside a very quiet Winta. The girl sits to Omera’s right, Din’s boy boosted up on a basket between them, and Heidi and Dom eat across from them with the Mandalorian children.

They eat slowly, even _ad’ika_ , who is trying his best to use a spoon, like his father would always futilely urge.

The poor boy had been asleep when Din’s departure had shattered their fragile peace, and he hadn’t even had the time to say goodbye. The boy stirred from sleep not long after, a sadness to his wise eyes, and Omera knew he could sense his father’s absence. She was worried he would be inconsolable, but the small boy didn’t make a peep. Though the utterly crushed look on his face was somehow worse.

She’d tried to keep a strong front around the children, as well as the rest of the village, and she thinks she might have partially succeeded thus far.

So she doesn’t elaborate about Din’s departure further to Cara, not yet at least.

She doesn’t mention how Din looked cut up, visibly shaking. Or the urgency she saw in his mannerisms, so much so that he couldn’t even wait for back up. How he’d uttered a tortured string of mando’a that he’d seemed almost frantic for her to understand.

But she hadn’t understood. His translation had been clipped, and his words assuring her that he’d be back soon just didn’t match the defeat so clear in his voice.

The memory sickens her now, but she didn’t really have much of an appetite to start with.

“You should eat,” she says instead, pushing her untouched bowl towards Cara.

The set to Cara’s mouth is grim as she accepts the bowl, and Omera can tell she is full of questions, but also has the sense to not ask them in front of the children.

“He’ll be fine,” she shrugs, picking up the spoon and digging in. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

Winta’s spoonful stops halfway to her own mouth, confusion sweeping her expression, “But he already looks _so_ tough.”

“Even less reason to worry then, hmm?” Cara counters around a mouthful before turning to the Mandalorian children across from her. “You’ve seen him in action, right? Would you mess with him?”

Winta looks to them desperately, and they both shake their heads.

“We used to watch sparring matches back home,” the boy reports, and she can see the pride on his face, how he clearly idolises Din. “He is strong, not the strongest. But much faster.”

“And he’s smart. He _always_ outsmarted the others,” the girl chips in with a brighter smile than Omera has ever seen on her face.

And Winta takes it all in excitedly, looking between the Mandalorian children, and then up at Omera and Cara.

“Whoa, cool! He’s so cool.”

“See? Nothing to worry about,” Cara grins, catching Omera’s eyes over the young girl’s head.

Omera just has time to send her a grateful look before the woman’s dark gaze turns mischievous, and it can only spell trouble.

“Well, except for those bruises on his neck.”

Omera instantly feels her eyes widen, mouth dropping open. A stifling heat pricks at the nape of her neck and a distinct flutter erupts in her chest. Blinking quickly, she composes herself before anyone can see her reaction, but they are all looking to Cara anyway.

The evidence of their time in the forest, over a week ago, had long since faded from Din’s neck. She would know, it had been all kinds of distracting when it had been on display at the lake earlier today. All golden skin and corded muscle. Her face had been chilled from being in the water, but he radiated a heat that she was more than happy to warm up against. She’d even managed to sneak a lingering kiss there, a jolt in her stomach at the way it made his throat jump in a slow swallow.

No. There were no markings there. Cara was just trying to get a rise out of her, and Omera feels nothing but love for the woman and her distraction techniques. Even if it is at her own expense, she appreciates that Cara is trying to ease the very present tension.

“I didn’t see any bruises,” Winta cries, bottom lip jutting out in worry, her dinner long forgotten. “What bruises? Do you think he was fighting with that big Mandalorian?”

The twins seem unbothered, the boy having returned to his meal and the girl giving Winta a shrug. Clearly the idea of Din and the burly Mandalorian tussling was not unusual.

“I don’t know,” Cara shakes her head, an innocence to her face that Omera knows is all for show. “But they were _all over him_. Maybe we should ask him when he gets back, right Omera?”

Across from her, Heidi is watching her with raised brows. Not in mirth like Cara so often sported, but more in enquiry, surprise. The village may have suspected what her relationship with Din was, but no one knew for sure as Cara did. Dom just looks confused, head cocked quizzically to the side.

She sends Cara a quick glare, and then schools her face into a gentle smile when Winta gazes up at her, warm brown eyes troubled.

“Don’t worry, love. I’m sure it was nothing. Remember he is very quick and smart,” she reassures her daughter, smoothing the girl’s hair back from her worried face and jerking her chin to the abandoned bowl of food in front of her. “Don’t let your dinner get cold.”

And Winta forgets all about it, turning back to her meal and engrossing the Mandalorian children in a deep conversation about sparring matches. A small smile graces Omera’s lips as she listens. By their descriptions, you would think Din were invincible, and she hopes that is enough to bring him home to her.

…

It is as she is washing up in the small stream after dinner that it hits her, that Din may have lied. Or not so much as lied, for she knows he wouldn’t be deceitful, but something just didn’t add up.

She was no expert in mando’a, but she _had_ hung on his every word long enough to pick up on it. Whatever he’d said in his language before he’d left, it was the same as what he had said over the com-link last night too. And she is certain his translations into basic changed each time, similar but still different. She figures maybe mando’a is more fluid than basic with no direct translation.

It all gives her a headache, and she is frustrated at herself for getting so hung up on such a small detail. Her energy would be better used living in the present, instead of torturing herself with the memory of his departure.

She shakes her head to brush the thoughts aside and dunks the bowl she had been washing under the water to rinse it off. There is no bonfire tonight, and even the moon is shrouded in cloud cover, so it startles her when a dull flickering of red reflects over the surface of the stream. Her heart leaps into her throat for a frantic moment as her eyes try to make sense of what it is, and where it is coming from, when she notices a flickering from the front pocket of her apron.

The com-link.

She fumbles to retrieve the device with numb fingers, hastily drying them off and flicking the switch.

“Din?” she urges, frozen in her position halfway between sitting and kneeling, dishes carried away with the slowly flowing water.

She waits with bated breath at the silence on the other side, her eyes burning with prickling heat, but then there is the soft sigh she is so accustomed to, and the tears fall as he finally speaks.

“Omera,” he murmurs, and his voice instantly calms and reassures her.

She lets out a breathless laugh, sitting back on her heels and clutching the com-link to her franticly heaving chest.

“I’m sorry to have left in such a hurry, is the kid okay? The twins?” he asks, voice cracking under what she assumes is more than just the audio interference.

“Everything is fine here, you don’t need to apologise,” she assures him, quickly wiping the dampness from her cheek with a nudged shoulder. “Thank you for com’ing though, I’ve been a bit of a nervous wreck.”

“I would have sooner, but I had trouble finding their trail. They planet hopped for a bit, not sure why, I’m locked on their signal now though. Shouldn’t be too long,” he explains, and she is relieved to hear his trademark sigh instead of the jumpy energy at his goodbye.

The worry washes away with his steady voice; rumbling, deep, like coming home. She lets herself breathe a sigh too, “That’s good to hear. The twins seem happy here, but I can always take them back with the speeder if they want. I’ll com the outpost in the morning.”

“They’ve really taken a liking to you, to the whole village. It is… good to see.”

She can hear the smile in his voice, and imagines how his lips would quirk one-sided, as if he is trying not to. Standing up, she retrieves the bowls bobbing further down the stream and stacks them out of the drift of the current, “They’re still awake, your boy too. Do you want to talk to them?”

He doesn’t even pause before he is agreeing, and she laughs softly to herself as she picks up the lantern and makes her way back into the village.

“They’re all hanging out in our hut with Cara before bed,” she explains. “I thought I’d let your boy stay up a little, just this once. It’s a bit cramped here, and we thought the twins would feel more comfortable if they had their own room, so they’ll stay with Heidi and Dom for the night.”

“That’s very kind of them.”

She hums in acknowledgement, and then is stepping up onto the porch of her hut where she can hear Cara regaling some tale that has the children transfixed.

“I hope Cara isn’t giving you ideas,” Omera remarks at a pause in the story, and four sets of enthralled eyes turn to her. “Din’s on the com to say hi.”

Winta’s face lights up and she scrambles to her feet to meet Omera halfway, gleaming eyes locking on the com-link. She looks so enthusiastic that it has Omera chuckling, passing the small device over into her eagerly waiting hands.

“Hello?” the girl asks excitedly, then instantly frowns and shakes her head. “I mean… Come in?... over?” she looks to Omera for guidance, head tipped to the side and whispering fiercely if that was right.

Omera just has time to laugh softly before there is a humorous huff from the line.

“Hey kid,” Din replies, and at the sound of his voice, his boy’s ears perk up and he is looking around desperately, toddling over to Omera.

So she crouches down and scoops the small boy up, balancing him in one arm and pointing a finger to the com-link in Winta’s grasp.

“Say hi to dad, _ad’ika_ ,” she softly urges.

He warbles in confusion, looking between the com-link and her face with such innocent eyes, and she smiles back in encouragement.

“Hey Womp Rat, you being good?”

At the sound of Din’s voice again, he chirps excitedly and proceeds to ramble off a string of nonsensical burbles. It dissolves an underlying tension that has been present since the afternoon despite everyone’s efforts to ease it. They all laugh in response, and even Din lets a small chuckle carry over the com.

“Of course he has been good,” Omera smiles when the boy is out of breath after his spiel, stroking an ear and making him coo happily. “He is the perfect little gentleman.”

“Hmm, I bet,” Din retorts sarcastically.

She laughs softly again and gazes at the look of adoration on her daughter’s face as Din’s rhythmic language flows through the com-link in a quick sentence. She figures he must be asking the twins something, so she gives them the privacy of not gazing their way, and instead shakes her head softly at Winta when she looks about to ask what he’d said. From the corner of her eye, she sees the Mandalorians share a look, and then reply in the same soft language.

Din hums again and gives one more quick utterance in mando’a before transitioning to basic again, “Sorry, I know that was rude. I was just checking they are okay.”

She smiles at his kindness, something she’d known of since the very beginning. It is a trait that is clearly a fundamental part of him, even as unexpected as it is from one in his profession. She is about to wave off his apology, but Winta beats her to it.

“Your language is so cool! Can you teach me when you get back? I’ve been practicing saying ‘ _ad’ika’._ ”

“Sounds good,” he replies, and there is something different in his voice, but she cannot pinpoint it. “You sound like a true Mandalorian.”

“We can teach you a bit too,” the young Mandalorian girl offers with a kind smile, “ _Burc’ya_.”

Winta beams, lips puckered, testing the shape of the word. And she does a fair attempt, the Mandalorian children only laughing slightly behind their hands, though Winta is laughing too.

“ _Burc’ya_ ,” the boy repeats slowly with a patient smile. “It means ‘friend’.”

Omera is content to just listen, smiling gently at her daughter and how she has a knack for making friends. Din gives interjections every now and then, and it is met by an excited garble from his son each time.

“I’m gutted I was out of town when you left, missing all the action,” Cara tells Din when the children are distracted with another word.

“You’re just upset to pass up the opportunity to tease my piloting,” he counters blandly.

But Omera hears what they don’t say; ‘I wish I was there to watch your back’, and ‘I know, but I’ll be okay’.

They leave it at that, Omera sharing a sad smile with the other woman before getting swept up in another conversation. They talk easily for a little while longer before it is getting late and the children ought to be settling for bed.

“Okay, but just one more word?” Winta pleads, and Omera relents with a good-humoured sigh, giving a nod and a stern look to say, ‘but don’t push it’.

“How do you say ‘dad’?” Winta asks of the Mandalorians, and she feels her own heart fluttering, wondering if Din’s is doing the same.

The boy translates it, significantly less complicated than the other words they had been discussing, and Winta repeats it easily, though still comes off as unsure.

“Mmhmm,” the girl confirms with a smile. “ _Buir_. It means parent, there is no difference between mother and father.”

Winta cocks her head in confusion and the Mandalorian girl gestures to Omera.

“ _Buir_ ,” she says, pale cheeks pinkening as she avoids Omera’s gaze. “Your _buir_.”

She sees as Winta gets it, and it reminds her of her own lesson in mando’a with Din, how there was no translation for handsome, only beautiful, because gender was not recognised in their language. The memory brings a flush to her face, and she wonders if Din is remembering it too, because his side of the line has also gone quiet.

“Cool!” Winta exclaims into the silence, and when Omera gives a pointed look, she then turns to Din’s boy and gestures to the com-link, “Okay, bedtime. Can you say _buir_? Goodnight to your _buir_?”

She hears as Din clears his throat softly through the com, and she muses whether he has spoken that word to his boy before. The child babbles as if he is trying, but cannot get his mouth to form the words, and the twins and Winta giggle in response before bidding their own goodnights to Din and passing the com-link back to Omera.

Then Cara claps her hands together and stands, turning to Omera and nodding at the children, “I got this, you go say whatever it is you gotta say to be able to get through the night.”

She gives a wink that has Omera flustered and Din makes a disgruntled sound from his end too, but nonetheless, Omera takes the com-link outside with her, pacing a couple of steps until she is out of earshot. What Cara was insinuating was in no way, shape, or form, appropriate, but Omera finds herself thinking of their last com anyway.

“Sorry. Cara has been in true form tonight,” she breathes into the device, laughing softly.

“That can’t be good.”

“No,” she agrees in humour, and then neither of them say anything for a moment, though clearly aren’t keen to end the com either.

Din breaks the silence first with a defeated sigh, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And it has her biting her lip, contemplating as her spiral of thoughts from earlier surface. To ask him what he’d said those other times in his language, and why he’d needed to say it in mando’a then, when now he mentions it in basic. Something stops her though, and she isn’t sure what.

So she just hums in agreement, a smile stretching her lips as she thinks of his return, “I’ll see you soon then. I won’t com, I don’t want to disturb you. But com here anytime.”

“Okay. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight… _nuh_ … _piru_ …?” she tries, a vague recollection of the mando'a phrase for 'sleep well', then laughs at herself and hopes he doesn’t take offense. “Sorry, I tried.”

The low rumble of his chuckle sends her stomach coiling tightly and she holds her breath against the sudden heat.

“ _Nuhoy pirusti,”_ he says. “It isn’t the easiest one.”

“I’ll keep trying.”

“I’m glad. Goodnight Omera,” he utters, as if he _knows_ how she loves the way he says her name, much like when he speaks in mando’a.

“Goodnight,” she breathes, and ends the com before she does something stupid like tell Din she loves him.

…

Omera sits by the main com device outside the hall, having punched in to connect to the outpost and wondering briefly if they monitored it on their end or not. It isn’t quite late morning, but the village has been up for hours and is already engrossed in the days’ work.

She watches as the children are finishing up their current lesson by the gravesite and are released for their morning break. The twins are amongst them, and she’d been surprised this morning when she’d walked into the hall and seen them eating happily with Heidi. Children were adaptable, she knew that, but seeing them so at ease after all they’ve been through was such a heartening sight.

She sends them a quick wave when they glance her way, and just when she thinks the com isn’t going to connect, there is a tell-tale click that draws her attention.

“Hello?” a voice she just recognises sounds through the audio, and her mind pulls up the image of the Mandalorian with the pretty coloured armour.

“Good morning, it’s Omera here. Just checking in. Din said he’d mentioned to you that he’d dropped the twins off with us?”

“Yes, thank you so much. Are they alright?”

“Really good, actually. They miss Din, I think, but I’m glad they feel comfortable with us. We are more than happy to have them as long as it’s alright with everyone on your end. Otherwise we are also happy to bring them back on the speeder anytime,” she offers, hoping she has managed to get across that the twins were in no way a burden, and they actually enjoyed having them.

“I think it will be good for them to be around other kids. For my daughter too even, but I’m not quite ready to let her out of my sight just yet. We’re also sorry to have sent Din alone, it’s frustrating for us to sit here helpless, but our ship barely made it here in its current state.”

Then she hears a deep rumbling voice in the background, the tone too low for her to make out anyway, but she thinks it isn’t in basic, whatever the man is saying. And the woman prattles off something in return, but Omera picks up her own name amongst it.

“Oh, it’s Din’s _cyare_ ,” she hears, and somehow just knows it is the bulky Mandalorian despite only hearing him speak a handful of times. “Must be nice having a breather from the runt–”

His taunt cuts off in a grunt and she can hear scuffling on the other side before his voice carries across the com again, “How are you?”

She smiles to herself and thinks maybe this is how his people deal with misfortune, because they all seem decidedly calm given the current predicament. Or maybe for all his teasing, he recognises Din as the skilled fighter he surely is.

“I’m good, thank you, and yourself?” she replies.

“Went a bit heavy on your brew last night, we’re used to our own being stronger than most, so I think we underestimated yours. Besides, it’s been a while.”

“When everything is settled, maybe we should compare,” she offers.

“You’re on,” he counters then gives a sigh, one that isn’t as long suffering as Din’s, but still holds some of the resignation. “Hey, I can tell you’re worried about the runt, but he’s hard to kill. I’ve tried enough times to know.”

The woman Mandalorian gives a scoff and utters what must be an insult to the man, “Sorry about him, Omera. That’s his idea of being comforting. Din will be fine, he’s one of our best.”

But now it’s the man’s turn to scoff, and Omera finds herself smiling at their bickering, the camaraderie amongst Din’s people evident in the smallest of details.

They sign off soon after, and despite the big Mandalorian’s less than savoury reassurances, she finds herself more at ease. If they weren’t worried, surely she shouldn’t be either.

Life at the village passes easily, and although Din’s absence is felt by all, having the Mandalorian twins with them is a nice reminder of their widely missed bounty hunter. It is in their quiet demeanour and kindness that she is comforted, so much like Din. And just like Din, they also slot easily into life on a krill farm.

Din coms the following day too, and Omera enjoys the conversation with him without the prying ears of anyone else, lets his voice sooth her, and feels a fluttering in her chest as he too says he misses home. The conversation is cut short when he arrives at his destination, and she can hear the acute change in his voice, a sternness overcoming his smooth timbre.

She ends the com, replaying all the positive assurances everyone has given her since he left, but it is little use, as her mind has other ideas. When she’d watched him leave, she’d seen the hundred deaths her mind tortured her with when she’d heard the news of her husband’s passing. They’d eased somewhat over the last day and a half, but now they rushed to the surface once more, and she sent a silent prayer to the souls among the stars to bring Din home to her quickly.

The first day isn’t so bad, even the second she can tolerate, but when the sun reaches its peak on the third day and she hasn’t heard from him, she feels it in her bones, in her every fibre.

Something was wrong.

Distance and time between them had been painful in the past, but she now feels the echo of remorse. Of sorrow and regret, deep in her soul, stretched far across the galaxy to where she cannot hope to follow.

And on the fourth day, she decides to try contact him, going against her better judgement. She retrieves the channel for his ship, scrawled on a note beside her nightstand where he’d left it seemingly a lifetime ago.

She dials it up, but all she is met with is radio silence. Tears prick at her eyes as she frantically checks the combination and inputs it again, though she knows she hadn’t made a mistake.

No, the line was dead.

She forces herself to take deep breaths against the strain in her lungs from holding it too long. There were plenty of reasons for the line to be down, the Mandalorians were proof of that. It is too soon to get ahead of herself, she knows.

But she is haunted by a trauma she cannot see, that no one can see, and even their reassurances fall short upon seeing the devastation in her face when no news comes the next day too. When she contacts the outpost in a panic, and they regretfully say they haven’t heard from him either. Not since he entered the atmosphere where they received the lost Mandalorian’s signal.

But they still have faith, say Din will be fine. And she has all the faith in the world in him, but her soul feels the connection tattered, and she cannot be as optimistic. At least not once she no longer has to keep a brave face in front of the children and she can grieve on her own.

She wonders what to do about the twins. Din had said a few days, and it was coming up on a week now. They seem at peace with the village, concerned for Din of course, but staying with Heidi and Dom had been good for them, had let them be kids again.

But Omera thinks maybe they need to start preparing for the worst, that Din might not be coming back. She knows she would wait forever for him, but managing the expectations of children was always at the forefront of her mind.

Even Cara, whose playful nature is usually unwavering, develops a deep frown in her brow as the days wear on.

She checks the Mandalorian’s damaged ship maybe a half dozen times, grasping at straws to try find something to convince her that it is space worthy. And every time, she returns to the village a little more frustrated, carefully concealing it behind a mask of calm and indifference when she thinks someone might be looking, but it doesn’t fool Omera.

She knows that Cara has been scoping out transport off-world behind the scenes, trying to figure out a way to try track down whatever has happened to Din. And she thinks herself selfish for turning a blind eye and letting her. Letting her friend, the sister she’d never been blessed with, consider putting herself at risk. But history seemed to be repeating itself and Omera wasn’t sure if her heart could survive it again.

So, by late morning on the seventh day, when there is still no news, it is decided that they will take the twins back to the outpost. She tries to enforce that it is just a precaution, and everyone is saddened, but agree that it is probably for the best.

It is a heart-felt farewell, the twins have become attached to the village, and the village to them. Particularly Heidi and Dom who’d been housing them the past week.

“It’s not goodbye forever, love,” she tells a dismayed Winta as they load up the speeder. “Cara and I will drop them off and then be straight back. And you’ll see them again too, I promise.”

Winta gives a jumpy nod, and being the affectionate girl that she is, pulls the twins in for a crushing hug. One they return after only slight hesitation, clearly as unfamiliar with the contact as Din had been at first.

Once the village is done with their goodbyes, she climbs aboard with Cara and the twins, Din’s boy swaddled in her arms, and then the speeder is lurching forward along the dirt road. She knows the twins have had a good time with the village, but they also must be missing their people and are eager to check in. They worry for Din, understandably, and are just that much older than Winta that Omera cannot quite fool them into thinking everything is alright.

The trip to the outpost goes quickly with quiet conversation and doting on Din’s boy. The little one is so much more perceptive than anyone gives him credit for, something uncanny and deeply wise in his otherwise innocent eyes. He seems saddened at Din’s absence, it crinkles his brow and drops his ears, but he isn’t the inconsolable boy she keeps waiting for him to become. And a sliver of hope in her thinks maybe he can sense Din, sense that he is okay, but just cannot make contact or return just yet.

The outpost comes into view and she sees the Mandalorians walking out of the common room to greet them, as if they’d been waiting for their arrival. She holds a hand up in a wave and waits impatiently for the speeder to close the distance down the long straight to the gate.

She cannot see the expressions of Din’s people, much like she also cannot say much for their demeanour, but there is an unease in the air that is palpable.

“Thank you for making the trip,” the horned-helmet Mandalorian steps forward, and she remembers Din telling her that she was their armourer. “It’s good to see you both again.”

Omera eases off the edge of the speeder first then encourages the twins down. She rocks the napping boy in her arms and turns to muster her bravest smile at the gathered Mandalorians, “It’s no problem, we brought you some more supplies too.”

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you,” the purple Mandalorian says gently, hands resting securely around the shoulders of her daughter in front of her.

Omera senses sympathy from the woman, and wonders if that is because she’d been the one on the receiving end of Omera’s panicked com the other day. And she must have updated the others, for somehow Omera can see their sympathy too, even through the impenetrable visors in their helmets.

The twins are welcomed back among their people, and once all the supplies have been unloaded, Omera and Cara are invited inside where they all gather around a bench in the mess hall. The lanky young man in red armour somehow manages to distract the children, gathering them into a circle on the floor to occupy themselves. The rapport between him and the twins is a warming sight to behold, and clearly a strong connection has been forged there.

At the table of adults, they discuss the facts, and Omera is somewhat comforted by their unwavering faith in Din, even the big Mandalorian that seems to always take pleasure in putting him down. They discuss what Din was heading into, though she finds herself mostly numb and unable to take in most of the details.

Just that there were three of their own that they were aware of, no children, and they’d been tailed. The big Mandalorian thinks that perhaps that was why their signal had showed them ‘planet hopping’ as Din had said; they were trying to lead whoever was hunting them away.

They don’t outright say it, but she senses their apology in their gentle words and reassurances, for taking Din away from her. She thinks it absurd, because from the very beginning she had always known Din’s commitment to his people and culture, knew they had to come first. She didn’t resent it, not in the slightest.

There is little more to discuss on the matter, for they have no more information, and Cara mentions that their ship is a no-go too, needing many repairs before it would be anywhere near ready to follow Din’s tracks.

So it is merely a waiting game, and Omera has always told herself that she would wait forever for Din, so she supposes now she will hold herself to that.

Eventually it is time to head back, and she walks out to the speeder. Most of the Mandalorians are with Cara, collecting things to be returned to the village, and it leaves Omera with the children and the friendly Mandalorian.

She cradles Din’s boy close to her chest, finding comfort from his warm weight in her arms. She hates herself for it, but it had crossed her mind that the Mandalorians might want to take Din’s boy from her too, if it looked like he wasn’t going to return. She remembers Din telling her Mandalorians were a culture of foundlings, and she supposes they had a better connection to Din, so would therefore be better suited to care for his son.

But they don’t mention it, and she surely isn’t going to bring it up.

“My name is Ava, by the way,” the Mandalorian woman suddenly offers, then gestures to the small girl at her side. “And my daughter Willa.”

Omera is shocked into silence for a moment, she had gotten used to identifying the Mandalorians by their armour, but she knows what a gift it is to be given a Mandalorian’s name. It was something she’d treasured when Din had offered his, and now she will do the same with this Mandalorian and her daughter.

“Thank you,” Omera breathes, and she suddenly feels the weight of it all crashing onto her, gives a watery smile and blinks away her tears. “It’s really nice to meet you, Ava.”

Then Ava is pulling her into a hug like they are old friends that have done this a hundred times, and it is so unexpected. Unlike how Din and the twins had been hesitant, at least at first, Ava charges forward, squeezing tight and gives a soothing hum when Omera returns the embrace gratefully.

She hadn’t realised how much she just needed a _hug_ , as simple as it was, but everyone seemed to walk around her on eggshells recently, afraid to mention Din or offer their condolences for fear of upsetting her further. But being comforted by one of Din’s people, whose armour was cool to the touch and dug in, gave her such a feeling of home.

With a final squeeze, Omera pulls away and wipes the dampness from her eyes, laughing softly at her labile emotions, and gives an apology that Ava waves off.

She turns to the small girl at their side, and she looks on shyly when she meets Omera’s gaze, “And it’s nice to meet you too, Willa.”

The girl smiles timidly, curling into her mother’s side, and it reminds Omera of how Winta had acted upon meeting Din the first time.

“Don’t lose hope yet, Omera,” Ava says gently, a comforting hand placed on her shoulder. “Din will come back to you. For me, when Illian is away it’s like a part of me has gone too, it’s a real toll. So, I know what it’s like to be apart from your _riduur_.”

The word is unfamiliar, she is sure she has never heard it before, and the confusion must be clear on her features because Ava elaborates.

“Sorry, _riduur_ means partner. Like husband or wife.”

It instantly has Omera blushing and stammering to correct what Ava so very clearly assumed.

“Oh, no. Din and I aren’t…” she trails off, she isn’t even really sure herself. She is his _aliit_ , as he’d said the night he’d shown his face, but she didn’t know if that were the same thing.

“Try telling Din that,” she snorts, the grin on her face obvious even with the helmet concealing her features. “You’d best have a chat with him when he gets back then.”

Omera laughs too, because she isn’t really sure what else to do and what Ava was implying.

Before long, the rest of the Mandalorians meet them by the speeder, loading up what they’d collected and bidding their farewells. And just before the speeder embarks, the twins come rushing to the railing, giving their thanks and uttering their names softly to her; that the boy’s name is Kyan, and the girl, Ryelle. She thanks them even quieter, tells them they are welcome at the village any time, just as all of the Mandalorians are.

When there is nothing more to be said, Omera and Cara begin their journey back home with Din’s boy. There is still the suffocating heaviness in her chest, but she returns to the village in a better state than she left. For she still had hope, it had just taken a bit for her to gather it once more.

…

Two days later, there is a chill to the night air and Omera finds sleep escaping her. Not to say that she had been able to sleep much lately anyway. She lays awake in bed, eyes having long since adjusted to the darkness and just able to make out the rafters above her head.

She turns the small, intricately carved flower in her hand, the gift Din had gotten her on his last venture off-world. The edges are rounded and smooth, and she wonders how much of that is from the original crafting, or the erosion from her nervous hands each night.

She just shuts her eyes and thinks she might give sleep another go, when there is a very quiet whirring overhead. So quiet she wonders if she’s imagining it, but the pitch of it is inconsistent, like its struggling, and it is enough to have her sitting bolt upright in bed. She stays deathly still and listens a moment longer, it sounds for a few more seconds before fading. Surely it couldn’t be just a figment of her imagination, so she quickly eases out of her bed and pads over to the entrance of the hut.

Gentle snores come from Winta’s room, a combination of both hers and the little one’s. Winta had begged to have the crib set up at her bedside, and it seemed to give the both of them some comfort, so she thought maybe it was alright for a few nights. She didn’t really have the energy to argue anyway. Cara is also lost to the world, face down on her cot and hair in disarray.

Poking her head out of the entrance, Omera squints against the contrast of light from the lantern and peers up at the night sky. The whirring had faded some time ago, and there was no sign of a ship in the sky, nor any of the cloud cover disruption to suggest one had flown overhead.

No, she must have imagined it, and she shakes her head in frustration, her mind playing tricks on her was the last thing she needed right now. Sighing, she decides to sit at the table and focus on her thread work. She might as well be productive if her mind wasn’t ready to let her sleep.

She sets herself up with a cup of honeyed water and works through the methodical weaves, glad to have an adequate distraction that requires a decent amount of undivided concentration. Despite that, when she finishes a particular section, she uses the excuse of stretching her legs to pace to the entrance and gaze out into the night. Then she’ll return to her work and the cycle continues.

She doesn’t know what she expects, or how long she plans to do it, but on the third time, she does a double take as she sees movement along the dirt path into the village.

She blinks her eyes clear, sure they are playing tricks on her again in her sleep deprived state. But when her vision focuses once more, she realises she isn’t imagining it and her fractured heart jolts back to life.

There is no mistaking him, she’d know his form anywhere, even in the dead of night on a dimly lit path.

“Din,” she breathes in relief, choking on tears that she’d been trying desperately to keep at bay.

She rushes to him, not even pausing to pull a cloak over her thin nightdress as she flies out onto the porch, stuffing her feet into the boots lined up outside. She runs as if on stilts to meet him halfway, and she can tell he hasn’t seen her yet, so she uses the opportunity to swipe the tears from her cheeks.

She is out of breath from more than just the short run when they meet, cheeks aching from the smile plastered there. She is so relieved that she hadn’t even noticed his limp until she is right in front of him. She hears his laboured breath and the weight of his gaze as he finally sees her, but it is too dark to see anything beyond that.

He utters her name on a broken sigh, voice weak and hoarse, and she feels the colour drain from her face.

“You’re hurt,” she whispers, stepping up to him and offering her support, a hand coming up to rest on his abdomen below the edge of his chest plate. “Are you alright?”

Her words catch in her throat as she feels a sticky dampness there, the way he slumps against her support ever-so-slightly, and the heavy smell of iron in the air. Pulling her hand back, her fingers twitch as she sees they come away dark. The moonless night prevents her from seeing the crimson red she knows is coating them.

He is injured, badly so, and she is heartbroken, utterly devastated, to know that her insistence and prayers that he hurry back to her might have resulted in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE delay in posting this sorry! This chapter fought me every step of the way and then it turned into a beast anyway 😅. It's super dialogue heavy (gross!) but it is what it is, I'm afraid. Also, I've been so excited with obsessing over all the new info about season 2, but it has made me super self-conscious of my fic (it's future, contradictions with cannon etc) too. All in all, it is a disastrous combination! 
> 
> Buuut, no matter, here is the new chapter! I have also updated throughout the earlier chapters where the "fill in the blanks" chapters slot in so it is easier to read/follow, as pointed out by a lovely reader. Many thanks! ❤️❤️❤️


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din returns a broken man, but he is home, and Omera is a bit broken too, so maybe they can help each other heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veeery slight warning for mentions of wounds/blood. I don't think it is bad, but then again, I am a nurse that can literally talk about necrotising fasciitis at the dinner table 😅. 
> 
> Enjoy! Thank you sososososo much for everyone's kind words and ongoing support. It means the world! ❤️❤️❤️

She goes ghost white when she realises it is blood that clings to her fingers.

He hates the distress he can see on her face, but is also just so relieved to finally see her, and to have managed to make it home without leaving a bloody trail all the way from the Razor Crest.

It is in stark contrast to when he had thought it was all over on Nevarro. When he had begged Cara to let him have a warrior's death, because he had just been so _done._ Done with it all, and he very nearly welcomed his end. But now he would fight with every last fibre of his being to return home.

She hesitates for only a brief moment before tucking an arm firmly around his back and holding her body against his side. Her other hand grips the bottom edge of his chest plate to offload some of his weight and he is surprised at her strength, for he feels significantly lighter on his feet.

A part of him wants to nudge her away, protect her from all the grime and death he carries with him, no doubt seeping through her own clothing by now, but a much larger part just wants to pull her in close and forget that the past week even happened.

 _Had_ it been a week? He isn’t even sure. He’d made the jump to hyperspace in a near delirious state, only to be awoken by the turbulence of the drop and Sorgan’s serene aqua atmosphere up ahead.

“S’alright,” he tells her, leaning into her support. He doesn’t really have a choice because he is so exhausted and needs the reminder that he has indeed made it home, and this wasn’t all a feverish dream. “Just need to lay down.”

He is surprised at the effort it takes to get the words out, voice hoarse with disuse and simply lacking the energy to make his mouth work around the words.

“I’ll get help,” she urges, eyes frantic as she begins leading him back into the village. 

He tries to give her a reassuring squeeze to the wrist at his abdomen, and clears his throat to give his best attempt at sounding normal, “I’m okay. I’ll sort it out.”

But it comes off short, clipped, _pained_. And that pain is mirrored in her glassy eyes as they look to him fleetingly, then she is turning her gaze from him and furiously shaking her head, “I can’t sit by while you use that damned cauteriser again.”

That draws his attention, and he gazes deep into the torment he sees in her dark eyes. He remembers the way she insisted on staying by his side, admittedly with her back to him, when he’d patched his wounds up in the past. How she’d flinched and whimpered with every zap and coil of smoke.

“I won’t,” he urges, and when she still looks unconvinced, eyes darting away from his, he draws them to a staggered stop and waits for her to look up at him, her eyes uncomprehending. When he has her attention, he gives a soft nudge of his helmet to her temple. “I won’t. But you could help me?”

She shuts her eyes at the contact, lips parted in the softest of sighs, as if her worries dissolve under the touch of beskar to skin, just as his had too. When she looks to him again, he can still see the concern in her gaze, but compassion also shines through. He thinks she understands what it takes for him to be vulnerable in front of anyone, and it is just one of the many things that has chipped away at the beskar surrounding his heart.

“Anything,” she whispers, urges, as if it were a given, and then she is guiding him forward again. He wonders how many times they had told each other that by now; how many times they’d said they’d give the other anything, _do_ anything.

Their pace is slow, but he is glad for her patience and support. Getting here from his ship had been a battle every step of the way, the pulling twinge of pain at the wound in his abdomen gruelling and his knees weak from the strain.

He notices the fleeting glance she sends over his shoulder, back into the forest he’d come from, only a mere second before she is looking ahead once more, but he catches it. He wonders if she is looking for the Mandalorians he was sent to save, and it makes anger and despair coil in his slashed gut.

“–how’s the kid?” he asks, once again frustrated at the effort it takes to form the words. It has Omera glancing at him in worry, and he thinks maybe he just shouldn’t say a thing, because the look she gives each time is as if he is twisting a knife into her own stomach.

“He’s… okay,” she begins, a thoughtful crease to her brow. “Not quite himself, but he seems alright. I think he knew you were in trouble, like he could _feel_ it… _sense_ it.”

He isn’t surprised, the kid had an uncanny ability, constantly surprising Din with his perception. He desperately wants to see the little one, seek the comfort he always seemed to find in his company, but is also aware of the hour. Not to mention he didn’t really have the strength to fend off the kid’s assured insistence of healing him.

“I think I did too, somehow. But I think he also knew you were okay,” Omera continues, casting a quick eye down him. “If this is what can be deemed ‘okay’.”

“Sounds like him,” he huffs lightly, attempting to ease her concerns, but the jolt it sends through his wounds has him biting down on a grimace to hide his pain. Omera sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth and gets a firmer grip around him, trying to take more of his weight.

Only partially successful then. He supposes he never really could hide anything from her.

She steps up onto the porch first and then turns to help him stagger up too. “The twins?” he asks by way of disguising his pained grunt from the exertion.

“Cara and I took them back to the outpost a couple of days ago… when we didn’t hear anything, and I couldn’t get through on the channel you gave me, I thought it was best we prepare…,” she trails off, a look of apology sweeping her face as they cross the threshold into the barn. It sickens him to think what that must have been like for her, after what she’d been through with her husband. To think he put her through that, and she is looking at _him_ in apology?

“They were happy here though,” she quickly adds.

His cheek twitches in a smile despite the circumstances.

They stumble through the dark, his helmet allowing him to see, but Omera clearly blinded by the way her steps are slow and fumbled. Reaching the table, he flicks on the lantern to bathe the barn in dim amber and she helps him unclip the rifle before easing him down into a chair. Bracing a hand to the wound on his abdomen helps some, but a pained grunt escapes him followed by a sigh of relief at finally being off his feet.

Once settled, she gives him a quick once-over before darting from the room to retrieve water while he catches his breath. He allows himself two before starting in on removing his armour, a process that is second nature and familiar, though he finds his fingers sluggish and clumsy now.

So he starts off easy; tugging off his gloves, unbuckling his weapons belt, yanking off the cloak and helmet. He runs a hand through the matted mess his hair has surely become, before setting the beskar down in front of him in easy reach should he need to put it back on. Next, he starts in on the thigh guards and vambraces, and only just manages to free himself from them when he hears familiar footfalls on the porch.

He knows it is Omera, the evidence of her presence forever imprinted in his mind, and he pauses in his efforts to glance over at the entrance. When she steps into the light, he sees as she catches sight of him, lips spreading into a relieved smile, and then she is rushing to his side, water sloshing from the bucket hung over her arm.

She looks radiant, be it a bit frazzled, and he feels genuine gratitude at being able to see her with his own eyes, watch the play of emotions across her features without the grainy picture from his helmet’s visor.

He is glad he had managed to quickly shower and change his suit before passing out on the way back to Sorgan, wash the grime from his armour and the evidence of his failure. For her eyes flit around his face the same way his do her; relieved and treasuring the gift it is to finally be able to do so again. She snaps out of it quicker than he does, and sets the bucket, a collection of medical supplies and what looks like a thermos wedged under her arm onto the table too.

He returns to his armour absently while he watches her, the pauldrons coming away easily enough, but he finds himself struggling with his chest-plate and having to divert his eyes from her to focus. She has finished setting out all the supplies, he doesn’t miss the bacta she has managed to sneak into the haul, and he sees her turn to him in his periphery.

“Can I help you?” she asks gently, hand settling over his hesitantly, like she’s fearful that will in some way insult his culture.

He gives a nod and directs her nimble fingers to the clasps. She steps in close, leaning over him to work intently, forehead pulled in concentration and he can’t help but to let his eyes trace her features once more. He has missed her so much, and it seems almost cruel to have her right in front of him, yet not in his arms like he’s imagined countless times.

She retracts a hand to quickly sweep a lock of her loose hair back behind her ear, and it has Din’s fingers twitching to do it for her instead. She is so focused on her task, and he her, that he doesn’t realise when the words slip.

“Can I kiss you?” he barely whispers, voice thick and heavy, and the fluttering in his stomach is from more than just blood loss.

She pauses in her work immediately, looking up into his face with a peculiar expression. When he says nothing more, she gives a disbelieving shake of her head, as if she cannot comprehend his question, “You never have to ask.”

He feels his cheek twitch in a smile, and knows he will always ask despite how many times she assures him he doesn’t have to. For it was a gift that a man like him did not deserve, but he’d happily spend the rest of his days earning its worth.

She doesn’t return to his armour, instead stays where she is, a few inches from him and a gentle hand leaving the beskar to settle on his cheek. He swallows thickly at the contact, feels his head tip ever so slightly into her palm, and she is watching him closely.

He reaches trembling hands up her arms, skimming the thin fabric of her dress, and it is now that he notices what she wears is different from what he has seen her in before. It is not the thick woven material he is familiar with, it’s lighter, looser, less structured, missing the distinctive embroidery at the collar. And her hair cascades in falling waves, free of braids and thread.

It is the first time he is witnessing what she must look like before falling asleep, and he thinks he will do whatever it takes to see it at the end of each day, for the rest of his days.

She must be cold, the night air definitely had a chill to it, and he can feel the shiver in her form as he circles his hands to gently cup the backs of her elbows. He stretches up to her, but when it pulls angrily at his wound, he fights to keep a groan concealed and instead just extends his neck.

She meets him halfway tenderly.

The first press of her lips is like coming home. They are cool to the touch and barely there, but immediately warms his soul in a way he’d been frozen in the past week. It is just a soft peck, warmth fanning his face with her shaking breaths, but she makes no move to retreat either.

So he touches his lips to hers this time, trying to remain gentle while breathing her in too. And his wound protests, blazes in pain and bright spots burst behind his closed eyelids at the strain until he feels lightheaded. But he would dive head-first into an inferno just to have her close.

His hands drift to her waist, guide her closer, and his lips turn a bit urgent, all the pain and loss and desolation spoken with the slant of his lips, the stinging in his tightly shut eyes. It’s like she gets it, like she always does, and she speaks of calm and reassurance through tender pecks and placating strokes to his cheek.

She soothes his lips to a calmer pace, then gently breaks the kiss and presses her forehead firmly to his own clammy skin. He blinks the dampness from his eyes and nudges back into her desperately. He can tell by the hitch in her breath that she is concerned, can feel the torment he doesn’t speak of.

And she doesn’t ask, doesn’t need anything from him. Just knows he is broken and offers to mend him unconditionally.

So no words are needed as they part again, removing the rest of the beskar and under-armour until he is left in just his base layers, boots kicked off to the side too.

“You should lay down,” she softly says, taking great care to stack the beskar gently on the table.

He hums in response and uses the table as leverage to stand jerkily from the chair. A hand pressed to his abdomen comes away red-tinged, and he looks to his pristine sheets with a grimace.

“Don’t want to get the bed dirty,” he grunts out, knuckles white from where they grip the back of the chair in support.

Before he even has to think of a solution, she is shaking out a thick blanket from a stack in the corner, doubling it up and spreading it along the floor at the side of the cot. She takes the lantern from the table and kneels at the side of the blanket, and he tries to at least maintain a certain amount of grace as he eases down onto it.

“Do you need help with your shirt?” she asks, pink flooding the tops of her cheeks.

He shakes his head, equally as flushed, and yanks the shirt over his head cautiously. The wet drag of it over his stomach is an unpleasant sensation, sticking in places, and the cool night air causes goose-bumps to erupt along his bare skin.

His eyes dart to her when he hears her sharp intake of breath, her eyes widened as they trail the crimson smeared over him.

“Looks worse than it is,” he utters, clearing his throat when his voice cracks.

She gives a disbelieving look but moves on, bundling up another blanket and leaning over him to wedge it under his head.

Despite the pain he is in, he uses the opportunity to capture her lips once more in a lingering kiss.

And despite everything else, he feels her smile softly into it, bringing her hands up to cradle his head so he doesn’t have to strain, before guiding him back down onto the makeshift pillow.

Retrieving the thermos from the table, she pours the steaming concoction into a small cup and offers it to him.

“Take small sips,” she instructs when he takes it. “It’s the same herbal tonic I’ve given you before, it’ll help with the pain. Help you sleep.”

The spiced scent reaches his nose and he remembers it well, particularly the tingling sensation it left on his tongue. He thanks her, managing to draw small mouthfuls from his reclined position as she tucks towels under his sides and fills the wash basin beside her from the bucket.

The warmth of the drink is comforting and he feels it heating him all the way down as he swallows. He watches over the brim of the cup as she looks him over, maybe judging where to begin.

He has a few lacerations on his arms where a few minor injuries were sustained in between his armour coverings, quick pressure dressings he had applied initially now sodden but not appearing to be actively bleeding.

Thankfully his lower half had avoided majority of his injuries, nothing requiring patching up, because he isn’t really sure how he’d handle having to remove his pants in front of her too. At least not yet, not in _this_ situation.

It is only the wound on his abdomen that he is particularly concerned with. It had been a deep slash that seeped continuously as he trudged back onto his ship after it all went to hell. He’d managed to cauterise the depths of it initially and bandaged it, but it had obviously been slowly oozing throughout the trip back to Sorgan.

Now, Omera gently removes the dressing to find it has opened up again. Most likely on his walk back here, but not to the extent that it was at the initial time of the injury.

She doesn’t look particularly concerned, a furrow in her brow, but not the frantic panic he’d seen in her eyes when she’d first noticed he was bleeding.

He places his empty cup down and watches her work, caught between trailing the measured movements of her slender hands, and the quiet concentration on her face.

She’s methodical, tepid water washing away the surrounding dried blood before cleaning up the more recent, whispering quiet apologies when he jumps at the contact. But she says nothing more, doesn’t ask about his trip, why he returned alone, how he sustained the injuries. He appreciates it, knows she will listen with undivided attention when he does talk, but would never ask it of him.

Once the wound is cleaned, she applies bacta and fresh bandaging, completely ignoring his futile attempts at telling her to save the bacta for the village, and he feels his lips quirk at her stubbornness and determination.

She moves onto his other wounds now, those on his arms, peeling away the haphazard dressings he had applied and washing the dried blood from his skin. They had mostly healed in the past few days, barely even visible as scratches now.

He stops watching her hands work and just watches her, the pain ebbing and exhaustion settling over him. His fingers reach out of their own accord, threading amongst a lock of hair spilling over her shoulder, watching the flame of the lantern dance along its shining strands and reflecting the warm light.

The movement catches her eyes and she looks to him, a softness to her eyes despite all the trauma she’s just seen etched across him.

“I was too late,” he finally confesses after a moment, dropping his hand back down to his side.

Her face crumples in recognition and she looks heartbroken, mouth opening and closing a few times as if unsure how to proceed, “Din…”

And now he doesn’t hesitate to tell her. How there had been three of his people, hunted and cornered by troopers. They’d managed to fight them off, but as is so normal in these times, another threat was lying in wait to take advantage of their exhaustion.

By the time Din had reached them, one was already lost, and he arrived just in time to see another fall. He fought alongside the last, and they won, but not without injury. And it was those injuries that took the last of the three Mandalorians he’d been tasked to save.

He’d recited the funeral vows, collected their armour and given them a send off so they may pass into the _Manda_. He hadn’t known them personally, was thankful there were no foundlings under their protection, but a part of his soul too had died with them.

Silence envelopes the barn when he is done speaking, and he cannot meet her eyes for the stinging in his own. He works to keep his breathing calm, neutral, and swallow the choking lump in the back of his throat. His vision distorts and he cannot understand why until he feels dampness touch his cheeks.

He doesn’t even have the strength to be ashamed, merely gives a sharp inhale and squeezes his eyes shut.

She had remained deathly still throughout his tale, and now she shifts up onto her knees, a light, tentative hand settling on his arm.

“It’s okay to be broken, Din,” she whispers, gives a gentle nudge to his arm and doesn’t continue until he looks to her. “It’s okay to be completely cut up and _devastated_.”

“I’m sorry,” he utters after a moment. He is sorry he’s the broken man she doesn’t need, definitely doesn’t deserve.

She shakes her head fiercely, squeezing a hand between her own, “I’ll always be here for you, in whatever way you need. But you don’t owe me anything, I never want you to worry or feel pressured. To think this might have happened because of the stress I put on you…”

“It wasn’t you. I was careless, rushed in because I missed home,” he explains, seeing the way her lips give a slight upturn at the mention of home. “I got back to my ship, but more were waiting. I managed to fend them off and get inside, but their ship followed me off-world. They shot out my comms and damaged the hyperdrive, thankfully it still functioned at reduced capacity though. Once they were dealt with, I circled a few times to make sure I wasn’t followed before making the jump.”

He concludes there, thinking it probably unwise to mention that he’d lost consciousness shortly after, only to awaken to the Crest dropping out of hyperspace.

“You are _yaim_ ,” she urges, smiling softly even as her eyes are glassy and red rimmed. She leans over and draws closer for a tender _kov’nyn_. “That’s all that matters now.”

He nods against her touch, not trusting his voice, and she pulls back. She finishes cleaning the dried and crusted blood from his arms before wringing the cloth out a final time and setting the wash basin aside, the water now murky and pink.

She dunks a fresh cloth into the clean water in the bucket, wringing it out and shuffling up closer to him.

“May I?” she whispers softly, indicating to the cloth in her hand and gesturing to him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, swallowing thickly and letting his eyes fall shut as she dabs the heat from his temple.

The lukewarm water soothes him, and she runs the cloth back into his hair, along his jaw and neck. It is a welcome sensation, and when he opens his eyes once more, she is watching him intently. She reaches to his forehead after a moment, smoothing a gentle caress there, as if trying to smooth out the frown his brow is pulled into.

“Tell me something happy, something good,” she smiles, but it just falls short of her eyes, and she sits back with the cloth clasped in her lap.

He tries, searches his memories for what might make her continue to smile like she always used to. And all the pictures that his mind conjures are from on Sorgan, with the kid, and Winta, and Omera. Cara sometimes makes an appearance too. But the memories even fall short of his mind’s musings, of a future he has teased himself might be a possibility.

“I dream of long afternoons here,” he begins softly, as if it is a conspiracy that will flit into the wind if uttered too loudly. “Where we lay in the wildflower field, flowers woven through your hair.”

Red tinges her cheeks and he feels it blossom up his chest and neck too. She absently tucks her hair behind an ear, and it spurs him on to continue, tell her of his deepest desires.

“Without the beskar,” he elaborates softly, watches as understanding flickers across her features. “The sun on my face and the warmth of you beside me. Where we don’t have to part at the end of the night.”

Her smile widens shyly, and she focusses unnecessary attention on returning the cloth to the bucket, trying to hide her face.

“Tell me something else,” she pleads softly.

He hesitates only momentarily before taking a steadying breath.

“ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum_.”

A puzzled look crosses her face, not quite confusion, almost recognition, and her eyes light up the way they always do when he speaks mando’a. She opens her mouth in what he assumes is a question of translation, but he beats her to it.

“ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum_ … it doesn’t quite translate well,” he begins, psyching himself up to continue and clearing his hoarse throat. “It is to say ‘I know you’, hold you in _ner_ _kar’ta_ , my heart, forever.”

There is silence in the wake of his confession. He is barely breathing as his arms shake to prop himself up in a seated position, suddenly feeling very vulnerable lying down.

She listens with rapt attention, but he thinks he should probably still spell it out, just so there was no confusion.

“It is how we say…,” he trails off, wetting his chapped lips. “How we say ‘I love you’.”

Her eyes well up once more, but there is no mistaking the pleased curl to her lips, the slight tremor in her breath as she tries to mimic the phrase.

She fumbles her way through, and he finds himself guiding her around the words until she is repeating it back to him, be it a pretty awful rendition.

“ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum_ ,” she eventually gets out without his prompting, such fierce determination in her eyes that he almost forgets that she is confessing her love in return.

But then he feels his chest swell in relief; maybe this is how it was always supposed to be.

Maybe this was _his_ Way.

She is giving a blissful laugh and shaking her head, smiling up into the rafters. He feels a chuckle escape him too.

“My heart isn’t made of beskar. Not like yours,” she tells him, a clear focus on pronouncing 'beskar' correctly, and rubs the fallen tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It’s weak and barely even whole, but it is yours.”

He threads his fingers through hers, giving a gentle squeeze and guiding their joined hands to his chest, resting over the frantic beat of his heart. She scoots closer still, splaying her warm hand over the expanse of his sternum and he thinks he can feel the fleeting pulse in her wrist too.

She watches him closely as she leans in, eyes darting between his briefly before sliding closed as she presses her forehead to his. He allows himself to trail her face for a moment, see as her thick eyelashes cast long shadows down her pinkened cheeks, the dimple there caused by the slight pull at the corner of her lip.

And once he has gazed at her lips again, he cannot help the tilt of his head to improve the angle, the eager search of his lips for hers as he too closes his eyes.

It is almost on accident when he first makes contact, and no matter how many times he does it, he is still lightheaded and nervous, heat stabbing at his stomach even stronger than the blade that wounded him.

Her response is automatic, easy, but he thinks he can feel her nerves in the subtle twitch in her lips too, the shake of her fingers as she combs them back into his hair.

And it is all the encouragement he needs to press his lips more firmly against hers.

“I missed you,” he utters against her mouth before he can stop himself, and the motion of forming the words has her lips dragging along with his in the most alluring way.

Warm breath rushes over him as she gives a throaty laugh, peppering his lips with lingering kisses around her words, “I missed you more.”

He hums, feels the vibrations rumbling up his throat as he begins to recline back, hands desperately trying to take her with him.

“–that’s doubtful,” he murmurs into her lips.

She humours him for a moment longer before breaking off with a gentle chuckle, firm hand to his chest easing him back down onto the makeshift bed, but resists being pulled on top of him. She strokes her fingers through his hair to soothe him, reassure him it wasn’t out of disinterest that she put a stop to it, and it feels so good he fights to keep his eyes open.

“You’re hurt, Din,” she argues, and it is half-hearted.

He thinks it probably wouldn’t take much to convince her that that was not a concern. But he was also thoroughly wrecked and doesn’t want to be held accountable for whatever lack-lustre experience he gives. His inadequacy in kissing was already abundantly clear, even on a good day.

He does his best to conceal his sigh as he settles back down into the comfort of the bundled blankets, reaching a searching hand up to her face. He timidly strokes the pad of a thumb along her bottom lip, revelling in its softness, “When I’m healed then?”

“Is that a promise?” she asks, encircling his wrist gently to hold his hand to her face, a grin stretching her lips and she cocks an eyebrow at him.

For some reason, having his head hit the pillow summons an air of exhaustion over him and he fears sleep may not be too far off. He hums in response to her question, gliding his hand up into her hair. She is so close now that he can smell the distinctive scent of the village soap clinging to the ebony strands.

“You should get some rest,” she suggests even softer, pressing soft kisses over his face, finishing on his closed eyelids and combing his hair back from his face with gentle fingers.

He gives a small smile, relishing in the concept of being cared for, something he thought he’d never experience again. But then he is turning serious, speaking barely on a whisper, “Will you stay?”

She smiles by way of response and quickly clears away the towels tucked underneath him to catch the water. The supplies are shoved aside to give more room, and she retrieves a clean shirt for him to wear. Lastly, she picks up his helmet from the table, carrying it with such care and delicacy, and sets it close by should he need it, then she settles down beside him. The blanket she’d shook out for him was not quite big enough for the two of them to sleep, but he’d just have to hold her closer. Easy fix.

She snuggles down beside him, careful of his wounds, and he wants nothing more than to tuck her into his side, have her rest her head on his chest. It isn’t possible, although he knows he’d gladly suffer through the pain it would induce, she most definitely wouldn’t allow it.

Another time then, but the way her face is pressed to his shoulder is enough for now.

“I have to confess,” he suddenly discloses before sleep can fully consume him, squeezing the hand he holds. “ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum._ I have said it to you before, but I let you believe it meant something else.”

The laugh she gives is so unexpected, but it is in a way he hadn’t heard since before he’d left, and he is glad to see it gracing her mood once more.

“I actually thought I picked up on the inconsistencies,” she explains, the smile clear in her voice. “But this was the last explanation I ever imagined.”

He feels her smile against his shoulder, press a soft kiss there.

They only talk for a little while longer, in hushed voices and soft laughs, about all he had missed while he was away. About the Mandalorians at the outpost, and how they were a great comfort to her in his absence, even Paz. How they never lost faith in him, assured her that he would be alright.

How the twins had slotted right into life on a krill farm, staying with another couple so they could have their own room. And how they too spoke highly of him, never had any doubts about his return, not once.

At some point she switches the lantern off and despite how tired he is, he makes sure she falls asleep before he does. When her breathing evens out and she doesn’t respond to the soft call of her name, he reaches his free arm up to grip the corner of the blanket on his cot, tugging it down over them.

“ _Nuhoy pirusti_ ,” he whispers, easing his own eyes closed, knowing that he can no longer put it off anymore.

He needs to make Omera his, properly. Because having her close, even like this, was not enough anymore. And his heart just can’t afford to wait any longer.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omera watches over Din through the night and helps him pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Life has been chaotic. But hopefully a double update makes up for it a teensy bit. This chapter, as usual, was originally going to be way longer, and cover a few different things, but I chopped it. I'm hoping to have the next chapter posted before season two airs but that is coming awfully quickly (yas!). Thank you for reading! Much love! ❤️❤️❤️

Omera is sure Din must sleep through the entire night.

For every time she wakes, it is his face, softened in slumber, that she searches out and finds in the darkness, fearing she has dreamt it all. He lays on his back, one arm enveloped by hers as she snuggles in close to his side, and the other gently rested across his upper abdomen, above the wound that brought a sweat to his brow.

And as she wakes each time, she dabs the evidence of his fever from his forehead with a tepid cloth. He barely even stirs, but she jostles him just enough to know he hasn’t succumbed to delirium, for him to murmur a gentle “m’alright” and nudge his head into her hand before drifting off once more.

He looks so at peace, expression relaxed in a way that is unfamiliar to her. She has only seen his face a few times, and she is much more accustomed to the nervous hesitance and worry-creased brow, perhaps a nervous smile. The expressions Din is surely unaware of for he never makes an effort to hide them.

She feels privileged to be given the gift of his face, and takes whatever he offers gladly. But seeing him now, like this, it is enough to make her stomach churn with want. Want for a life with him where he wasn’t dragged away every two minutes, taking her heart with him each time and making her a nervous wreck. She feels selfish, beyond belief, because Din has never promised her anything more, and she’d somehow convinced herself she was happy with that.

So, no. It was nowhere near enough but it was better than nothing, because she’d decided long ago that she couldn’t just forget about him.

And he’d said he loved her. Had been saying it even before now. She presses a giddy smile into his shoulder, despite everything, and snuggles back down for a moment. She has every intention of getting up in a minute, to quickly leave a note for Winta and Cara so they wouldn’t worry when she wasn’t in their hut in the morning. Then she’d return back to Din’s side for the night. But the comfort she finds against his warm body is one she hasn’t felt since her husband’s passing.

So she _doesn’t_ get up in a minute.

The next time she wakes it is morning and her head is nestled into his shoulder. She turns her head slightly and blinks residual dreams from her eyes, taking in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the open blinds and illuminating the particles floating in the air. The sounds of a waking village drift on the breeze, bubbles of conversation, the laughter of children, and she remembers that she never made it back to leave that note last night.

She figures she should probably check in now at least. She had been staring blankly at the barn wall from her relaxed spot on Din’s shoulder as she mused, and now she turns to gaze at him only to find he is already watching her. She stammers briefly when their eyes connect, his warm and kind, and no longer holding the glassy emptiness of the night before. The fevered sweat doesn’t dot his brow and the grey hue to his skin has significantly warmed.

He looks better, still exhausted and sleep deprived judging by the dark circles under his eyes and sunken cheeks, but better nonetheless.

“Good morning,” he croaks, voice hoarse from sleep, and it makes her heart thud as he gives the hand he holds a gentle squeeze.

She opens her mouth to respond, return the greeting and ask how he is feeling, but it dies on her lips as she hears a pair of footsteps approaching from outside, accompanied by indistinct chatter. It is without a doubt Winta and Cara, but she cannot make out their words, and her foggy mind does not make the connection quick enough that Din is laying at her side. Helmetless.

“Whoa!” she suddenly hears Winta exclaim from beyond the doorway, followed by an abrupt scuffle and thud.

It has Omera propping herself up on an elbow and shooting a glance at the entrance to the barn, and she sees Din’s boy come stumbling into sight. She can tell the moment his big eyes catch sight of his father, and he lets loose a trilling squeal as he scurries across the floorboards towards them.

He looks so excited, pudgy cheeks rosy and grinning, and it beings a smile to Omera’s own face to see him back to his old self.

“Mama…?” Winta’s voice calls again hesitantly, and Omera’s heart flies up into her throat as she sits bolt upright, shielding Din behind her.

“I’m here love, but…,” she quickly responds, and her daughter remains out of sight, but she still feels anxiety rise up in her as she thinks of how to protect Din.

“… Can I come in?” Winta asks warily.

“Come in,” Din calls before Omera can.

She turns to see he too has pulled himself into a seated position, his helmet now securely in place. He must have yanked it on at some point in her panicked state. His boy is perched on his lap, wrinkles creasing his small forehead in worry as his eyes trail the dressing on Din’s abdomen. Din is murmuring to him in his language, gentle words and even gentler fingers capturing the small boy’s hands that are extending out to his wounds.

She doesn’t have to speak mando’a to know that the child is trying to heal Din, and unsurprisingly Din is doing his best attempt to stop him.

“You’re back!” Winta exclaims in excitement and Omera hears the shuffling of feet at the entrance. She turns back to see Winta edging around the doorway, eyes downcast and caution clear on her face as she speaks, “Do you have your helmet on?”

She smiles at her daughter, pride blossoming in her chest at the young girl’s thoughtfulness and respect for Din’s culture. And when Din hums in agreement, Winta’s face lights up as she snaps her eyes up from the ground. Cara enters behind her, a smile that surprisingly holds no smirk on her relieved face.

Winta’s eyes search the inside of the barn with a peculiar tip to her head, a brow cocked quizzically, until she spots them huddled on the ground by Din’s bed.

“Why are you on the floor?” she deadpans, but is then careening over to them in a gangly run, grinning widely.

Before they can answer her question, Omera sees as her dark eyes flit over the dressing packs strewn around and the water tinged pink in the wash basin, eyes widening with each passing second before locking on Din with panic colouring her expression.

She wants to kick herself, she should have made an effort to clean up the evidence last night.

“Are you hurt?” Winta asks, settling down on her knees across from them as Cara pulls out a chair from the table to sit on.

Din’s boy warbles sadly in confirmation, his little hands still trying to evade his father’s dismissive swatting.

“I’m alright now,” Din tells her, and Omera is relieved to hear his voice does sound stronger, in a way she knows is not entirely just through sheer effort. “Your mother took care of me.”

She cannot help but glance his way at that, pink flooding her cheeks as she gives him a shy smile, suspecting his face is much the same underneath the helmet. Looking to Winta, she sees the girl has a wide smile on her face, chest puffed out in pride. Omera chuckles softly to herself, she was the one who so often shone with pride for her daughter.

“We figured there was only one place your mother might have gone if she weren’t in the hut, huh?” Cara says to Winta, the girl nodding eagerly.

She can see Winta is brimming with questions, Cara too, and she finds her stomach turning over in unease, wanting to protect Din from the string of topics their questions will surely follow. She would gladly stay at Din’s side all morning, regrets having to leave his side at all, but assures herself there would be plenty of time for catching up later.

“We should leave Din to rest,” she explains gently. “I’ll bring you in some food too, you must be hungry.”

“Thank you,” he nods.

“Alright, Squirt, let’s go get some breakfast too,” Cara says, cupping a hand to Winta’s shoulder as she stands, then directing her next words to Omera. “Though you should probably get dressed first.”

She instantly looks down at herself and realises she is still in her night dress, heat rushing to her face. She’d never even given a thought to throw on her gown before racing out to meet him last night, then it just kind of got forgotten in the stress of everything. Her night dress was modest, not skimpy in the least, but the thought that Din had seen her in it set her heart racing once more.

From out the corner of her eye, she sees he too looks a little taken aback, helmet’s visor avoiding her general direction and focussing wholly too much on straightening out his boy’s collar.

“You too!” Winta adds with a pointed finger at Din, alarming the both of them from their thoughts. “You look weird without all your…,” she trails off as she struggles, hands doing a strange waving gesture to his body. “Shiny stuff.”

“Armour,” Cara corrects.

Winta gives a confident nod, “Yeah, armour. You look funny without it.”

And Din clears his throat amidst a soft chuckle at the same time as Omera chastises her daughter for her lack of tact. Winta may respect Din’s culture and Creed, but she was still a child.

It strikes her that even though she has seen Din without his armour, seen his _skin_ a handful of times, the sight of it still draws her eye. So she imagines it must be pretty surprising for her daughter now.

Soon Winta and Cara leave her with Din and his boy, a quick promise of seeing Omera in the hall shortly thrown over their shoulders as they exit the barn. Once they are out of earshot and she thinks she has composed herself enough to face Din again, she turns to give him a smile. Instead, she is met with the quick diversion of his own gaze, seemingly startled and almost comical in his helmet’s clumsy movements.

She wonders if maybe he was taking note of her night attire for the first time now that it had been brought to their attention. The knowledge manages to both excite her and make her incredibly self-conscious at the same time.

But now that his attention is diverted from her, she can take in the sight of father and son, and it warms her to see the look of adoration on the little one’s face as he trills up happily at his father, his _buir_. And there is no mistaking the look mirrored on Din, even with the seemingly impenetrable helmet in place.

A smile graces her face at witnessing the heart-warming moment, and she gives them a bit of privacy as she begins clearing away the mess from last night. Tipping the basin of water back into the bucket, she wonders how Din’s wounds are this morning. There had been no evidence of strike through bleeding throughout the night, though she supposes his shirt was dark and it wouldn’t necessarily be obvious. She is counting on her rather limited knowledge of healing when she assumes the bacta would have done the trick as she piles the empty dressing packs into the basin to take away.

She is just collecting all the towels and wash cloths into the basin when Din’s hand settles on her forearm hesitantly. It withdraws almost instantly, as if he isn’t sure if his touch is welcome come day light.

“You don’t need to do that. I’ll sort it out.”

“It’s not a problem,” she smiles, because her hands are full and she cannot chase his retreating hand like she wishes to. And he uses said hand as a brace, as if he means to get up.

“I need to contact my people, tell them what’s happened,” he explains when he must see the look of concern on her face.

“I understand,” she begins gently, lips pursed, and brow furrowed, but she tries to send him her most open and kind look. “Do you think you should have something to eat first? Then com them from the hall? Maybe lay on the bed now, get more comfortable, and I’ll bring back some food for you and _ad’ika_.”

The child chirps at the mention of his nickname, and Din remains quiet for a moment, like he may want to protest, but eventually relents and gives a nod instead, “That would be nice, thank you.”

And with that she gives a gentle knock to his helmet with her own forehead, strokes the little one’s big ear and takes her leave, bucket, basin and medical supplies tucked under her arm.

She wants to offer him help getting up, make sure he does in fact get comfortable on the bed, but she also remembers what he said about Mandalorian pride. She doubts he would decline her help if she offered it, purely from not wanting to offend her she is sure, but she doesn’t want to put him in that position. She’d cautioned Winta of it before, that Din would most likely try to please others at the detriment to himself and his own wishes, and she’d always told herself to never make him choose.

So even though it very nearly kills her to walk out of the barn with him still on the floor, she bites her tongue and continues back to her hut regardless.

She moves quickly, not that keen to have the whole population of the village see her leaving the barn in the morning, especially once they knew Din had returned last night.

She laughs to herself. It was probably futile, everyone seems to have made up their minds about what was going on with her and Din anyway. And a part of her, that she assures herself is only miniscule, is quietly pleased that she no longer has to correct them.

Even so, getting caught in her nightdress was not ideal, so she quickens her pace and takes advantage of the fact that everyone seems to already be dining in the hall for breakfast.

She discards the bucket of water in a planter trough on the way and puts the linen in a hamper for washing once inside. Padding over to her room, she straightens out the sheets she did not spend the night in and gets dressed. She catches sight of herself in the mirror, loose hair the slightest bit ruffled and cheeks still pink.

She blows out a smile at her reflection and gets to work combing out her long hair until it shines, then braiding the front sections back from her face. Once satisfied, she ventures into the hall.

Cara and Winta had obviously filled everyone in on Din’s return, and Omera is heartened to find that they don’t press for answers as to why he was gone so long, why he has returned alone, how he was injured. They are merely concerned with whether or not Din was well, to which she can answer easily.

Some have a knowing glint in their eye when she speaks of his return, a subtle raised brow that has Omera blushing all over again. But otherwise they are as respectful of Din’s privacy as if it were their own, asking only that she let them know if there was anything they could do for him.

She smiles at their kindness, but knows Din would be very much against accepting even the smallest token of help from anyone. When she reaches the food prep area, she sees a tray has already been set up for Din and his boy, with very generous helpings.

She runs the tray back to the barn, making her approach known by heavy steps on the wooden boards of the porch. Inside she sees Din has managed to clamber up onto the bed and is speaking softly to the little one in his language, the child sitting atop his stomach with ears downcast in mourning. So she sets the tray down on the night stand quietly, not wanting to interrupt their moment, and retreats with the promise of catching up with him later.

* * *

By the time they finish eating and Din has donned his armour, the village is in full swing of krill harvesting by the sounds of it. He doubts the kid understood what he said of his time away word for word, but he thinks he must have gotten the gist of it given his quiet demeanour and saddened eyes. And despite his best efforts, Din didn’t have the strength or perseverance to stop the little one from getting his little claws on his wound, healing it within a matter of seconds.

It seems wholly wrong to scold such a behaviour, so Din merely pats his fuzzy head with a sigh, “You didn’t have to do that, _ad’ika_. But thank you.”

He responds with a happy coo and stretches his arms towards Din until he picks him up, tucked into the crook of his arm as they venture out into the late morning sun. He spots Omera almost immediately, though she is not in the ponds as usual, but instead in the small area at the outermost edge of the village sectioned off for growing vegetables. Cara is with her and he can see even from this distance as they chat idling amidst tending to the crops.

He makes his way over to the com set up outside the hall, nodding at the greetings he receives on the way, some just offering kind smiles, others patting him on the back as he passes. Once arriving at the com tower, he flips the switch and adjusts the kid self-consciously in his arms as he waits for the connection to the outpost.

He’d been dreading this conversation, of telling them he had failed, ever since the delirium had cleared as he dropped out of hyperspace. Now he waits with tension pressing in at his temples and chest tight as if he’s been holding his breath.

“Hello?” a voice calls from the other side after a few moments, and he recognises it as Lucian. He doesn’t sound at all surprised to be answering through the com-link, and Din wonders if perhaps conversations such as this have been commonplace in the past week.

“Lucian,” he responds before even realising, so taken aback by the familiarity, let alone that it was the young, gangly Mandalorian answering.

“Din?” the boy replies in question. “You’re back? The village has been real worried, especially Omera. Hang tight, I’ll grab the others.”

Then there is a shuffling sound carried through the audio and he waits while his people are obviously assembled before the com-link on their side. He waits patiently, looking around to see if anyone has taken notice of him, then eases down onto an overturned basket to sit.

“Din, it is good to hear of your return,” the Armourer’s voice comes through the com, and he doesn’t miss the inclination at the end of her sentence as if to say, ‘update us’.

He swallows the grief and loss and clutches the kid tighter, “I was too late, I have returned alone.”

There is silence from their side for a moment before her voice carries over again, “Tell us what has happened.”

So he does, as he had Omera, though this time he doesn’t leave out the details. He speaks of the Mandalorian’s bravery and courage fighting against all odds. How he had been with them, had the honour of fighting beside them, but that they were unable to be saved. How his ship was damaged too, and it would be some time before either ship was space worthy again.

But he had avenged their loss.

The Mandalorians at the outpost are quiet as he retells the trauma and despair of his time away, and when he is done, the child in his lap coos softly, ears flattened.

“Their beskar is back with the tribe, their souls with the _Manda_ ,” the Armourer says into the silence, voice solemn in mourning, and Din can tell there is no blame in her words. “You have done this for them, they are at peace. This is the Way.”

It had never felt _further_ from the Way.

But despite that, he echoes the sentiment back in unison, and Din tells them he will bring the beskar, then work on restoring the ships.

Little more is said, and he waits for the com to disconnect before hunching over his knees and letting out a bone-deep sigh, tense hand running over his helmet. He hears an approach and when he tips his helmet sideways, he sees Omera standing sheepishly off to the side.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she whispers gently, nervous fingers wrung into her dress and takes a half step towards him.

“You didn’t,” he tries to keep his voice light, ease her concern, and pushes himself up to stand. “But I better head to my ship to collect the beskar.”

“Are you sure? Your injuries… maybe you should rest?”

He appreciates her concern, knows it comes from a place of care and thought, but cannot afford to rest just yet.

“I will, once this has been made right,” he murmurs gently, not wanting to seem to dismiss her.

She takes him in for a moment, hands clasped behind her back and head cocked to the side, “Want some company?”

It only takes a second for him to decide, and then just a mere nod on his part to have her face lighting up.

“Okay,” she smiles, all previous concern dissolving from her expression. “Just let me finish up quickly. I’ll meet you at the road in ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes,” he agrees, and then she is darting off to finish whatever she’d been occupied with, and he goes in search of the children in their lessons.

He is reluctant to part from the kid so soon after getting back, but it wouldn’t be for long, and the kid was probably missing his friends by now anyway. He finds the kids in lessons with Pippa in the hall, narrowly avoiding their multitude of questions thanks to Pippa’s insistence on returning to their work otherwise they would miss their morning break. He gives her a silent thank you by way of nod, and she waves him off casually as she takes the little one from him.

“Be good, Womp Rat,” he instructs with a stern finger.

Pippa snorts in amusement and hoists the kid onto her hip, beaming down into his little face as he curls his claws into her apron for purchase, “You’re an angel, aren’t you?”

“Try bathing him and then tell me you still think that,” he retorts, now his turn to huff in humour, and Pippa sends him a wide grin.

He thanks her and then finds Omera already waiting for him near the edge of the forest. He makes his way to her and then she falls in step beside him as they follow the carved trees to the clearing where the ships are sitting.

For some reason he feels nervous being alone in her presence, his heart hammering and stomach churning. He’s fooling himself if he thinks he doesn’t know why, ever since last night he’s been trying to figure out how he is ever going to work up the courage to ask her…

When he nearly makes a fool of himself by stumbling over a loose tree root, he decides to stop letting his mind wander and instead focus on his footing for the meantime. They chat quietly on the easy walk, leagues from the pained dragging of feet he’d done on this very trail last night when he returned. He almost expects to see a bloody trail left in the mossy undergrowth, a scarlet handprint smeared on the tree bark from when he’d had to stop to catch his breath and support himself. But there is no evidence of the night before, in the forest or even on him. The kid had seen to that.

They make it to the ship, and Omera’s breath catches at the damage, hand flying to her mouth as her eyes trail the scorched lines where shots had landed, a few of the dented panels.

“Din…,” she whispers, brow furrowed as she follows him to the opening ramp.

“It’s not so bad,” he tries to reassure her, stepping up onto the ramp and heading into the hull. “Looks worse than it is.”

She somehow finds humour in that, giving a small huff and scanning the inside of the ship as she continues on behind him, “I’m starting to think maybe your helmet is clouding your sight a bit.”

He doesn’t know how to respond, and just ends up shrugging. And she just smiles as if he wasn’t the socially awkward man he is.

The hull luckily isn’t too messy, and he is relieved that the beskar is stacked down here so they don’t have to venture up into the cockpit where there are likely still bloody dressings.

She is standing near the ramp, fingers skimming one of the panels he’d shoved aside, just managing to make necessary repairs on the way home before losing consciousness.

“There are a few repairs to be done,” he explains when she catches his eye. “But I don’t think I have the brain capacity to do it today. Maybe tomorrow.”

She gives a gentle smile and nod, and somehow it makes him want to continue.

“I shouldn’t be tired. I slept the whole way back here, though I suppose it wasn’t really a restful sleep,” he tells her as he moves further into the hull.

“You can play catch up now.”

“Hmm,” he confirms, glancing back at her and spurred on by her half step closer. “Like last night. I doubt I’ve ever slept so well.”

“Me too,” she replies, smile widening, and she drops her face to hide her pinkening cheeks. “Though it was probably the tonic that’s responsible.”

She likely wasn’t wrong, it had worked well in the past too.

He hums in acknowledgement, thinking back on the spiced liquid that he still can’t quite decide whether he likes or not.

“It’s the strangest sensation. My mouth still feels a bit numb,” he laughs lightly when she does too, and then her face takes on a new expression, mouth smirking and eyes bright.

“I think I know a way to solve that,” she tells him as she steps closer still.

“What’s that?” his voice has become decidedly husky, and he fights the urge to clear his throat against the thickness there.

Her answering smile is even brighter than the last, and she slowly reaches her hands up to the sides of his helmet. Her dark eyes inspect each inch of the visor, somehow still able to catch his eyes through the dark barrier.

And her eyes ask for permission, as they always do. And as _he_ always will, he lets her lift the helmet away.

Once her eyes see his face, she smiles wider and his mouth burns with the need to kiss her all of a sudden.

When she does press a gentle kiss to his lips, she draws away all too soon, so he chases after her. Pulls her body against his and is content to stay here a bit longer.

* * *

…

_[Link to "fill in the blanks" chapter four!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876319/chapters/66366607#workskin) _

…

Her knees are still weak by the time they have the armour divided between two crates, one smaller for her to carry, and a larger one for him. She’d be worried about his wound if he hadn’t already well and truly proven it was not an issue.

Her face flashes with heat at the thought and for a fleeting moment she turns her face to the floor, hopes he hasn’t noticed. It is a futile wish though, because she knows his helmet has been trained on her ever since, and if she’s honest, she revels in the heat of his gaze.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs softly at her shoulder, handing her the smaller crate, and she thinks she can hear the slightest tinge of smugness on his words.

She grins at him unashamed, even as her face heats further, stepping in closer until the crate presses tightly between them as she takes a hold of it, “You know for a fact that I am more than alright.”

“I might,” he agrees, the grin unmistakable in his voice and he seems reluctant to put any distance between them too, but steps back after a moment. “We should head back.”

The crate is surprisingly light, and she carries it easily once he lets go to grab his own.

She gives a nod and follows him out, trying her best to not let the smile completely take over her face.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tradegy of the Mandalorians Din couldn't save is made right, and Din is a nervous wreck preparing for what he is about to do!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, sorry sorry sorry! Ah! I'm so upset this took so long. Work has been chaotic, and on top of that... I've got a new pooch now too so many learning curves this past month! 
> 
> This chapter fought me every step of the way and was getting waaay too long so once again I've chopped it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone that reads! I am eternally grateful for your support and patience ❤️

They return to the village just as everyone is congregating in the hall for lunch, and it is as if Omera can sense his reluctance as he lingers at the entrance. The villagers greet them as they pass by in small groups, chatting eagerly about the morning’s work amongst themselves. Din can hear the children already inside, the kid undoubtedly amongst them making a mess, and the thought brings a smile to his face.

The crates of beskar are loaded onto the repulsorlift speeder and Din knows he should already be on his way to the outpost, but he is reluctant.

Reluctant because he had only just returned home, because there had been a few moments where he really questioned whether he would make it or not.

Reluctant because he knew it was another obstacle keeping Omera from finally being his, though he thinks maybe his nerves are happy in that respect at least.

It is amongst these musings that he hadn’t noticed Omera turning to him, concern knitting her brow and reassurance in the gentle hand settling over his elbow.

“Go to your people, Din,” she says softly, giving a small nod and imploring him with eyes shining amber in the sunlight. “Don’t rush. It’s okay.”

He wants to tell her it isn’t okay, that being apart from her was in _no way_ okay, and hadn’t been for a long time, if ever. She says ‘don’t rush’ with the faintest glimmer of guilt in the set of her mouth, and despite what had clearly happened last time he ‘rushed’, he knows he will never be able to do anything but. She is his homing beacon, the speck of light in a darkened universe that will always call him home.

“They are my people,” he agrees, finding her retreating fingers with his own and giving a gentle squeeze that is probably more for his reassurance than hers. “But my people are also _here_. You, Winta, the kid. The whole village.”

She smiles prettily at the declaration and clasps his hand between her own as she brings it to her chest, “Then do what you have to, and then return to us. We will always be here waiting.”

By now everyone is inside, so he feels a bit more confident with affection. If she wasn’t afraid of the village seeing their exchange, then he wasn’t really either. He steps in closer and is rewarded by her mirroring the movement. But if there was much more of this, he fears he will never be on his way. So he settles a hand gently on her waist and tenderly knocks his helmet against her forehead.

She nudges up into him too and the movement brings a wafting fragrance of the cactus soap clinging to her hair. His helmet filters out a decent amount of it, but not enough to stop the images of earlier on the Crest from swirling in his mind’s eye. He squeezes his eyes shut as his throat thickens at the reminder, and he fights to not clutch her tighter and instead withdraws.

The closeness seems to have affected her too, for her breath draws in quickly and she follows the start of his retreat.

“I love you,” she whispers quickly, and it has his eyes snapping open as he halts.

She is staring intently into his visor, he can see the passion in her eyes, but also the doubt and worry, as if maybe she hadn’t meant for that to slip. They hadn’t said it again since last night, and somehow saying it in daylight with the indistinct chatter of the farm in the background made his chest thud in a different way. When there was no pain in his abdomen reminding him of how close he might have been to losing it all. When _she_ said it _first_ , however petty and immature that was.

He drifts his hand up from her waist to stroke into the hair by her ear, thumb skimming her cheekbone soothingly. “I love you,” he utters back, voice heavy and rasping.

“Sorry, I wanted to say it in your language, but the phrasing is still difficult for me,” she utters softly, apology clear in her eyes.

“It is nice to hear it in any language. _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum_.”

“ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,_ ” she repeats with a smile, the pronunciation only slightly off, but she cringes anyway. “That was probably awful, I’ll keep practicing.”

“You’re doing well. I’ll gladly listen to you practice,” he comments, giving a final nuzzle before stepping back. She beams brightly at him and releases his hand.

“I should head off,” he comments, starting into the hall and she follows. He spots the kid at one of the tables with all the other children and makes his way over. “I’ll be back tonight.”

She gives a nod and excuses herself to go pack them some food while he collects the kid. He’d been worried that he might be interrupting the little one mid-meal, but judging by the empty bowl before him and drooping eyes, Din chuckles to himself for being naiive. Of course the kid would be the first to finish.

The noise must draw his attention, because the kid is shuffling his bottom on his makeshift booster seat so he can peer around at Din. He must know something is up, and he stretches out tiny hands with a string of garbled mutterings.

“Don’t worry, _ad’ika_ , you’re coming too,” Din quietly reassures him, holding out his arm to which the kid immediately scrambles his way up.

“You’re leaving?” Winta looks thoroughly disappointed, and it sickens him that pride curls his lips into a small smile. “But you only just got back.”

“I must check in with the Mandalorians, but I will be back soon,” he explains, then remembers the importance of managing expectations when he sees her eyes light up. “Tonight.”

“I’ll see you at dinner then?”

“It’ll be late, probably once you are already in bed,” he tells her, feeling his chest constrict as sadness washes over her features. She had grown attached, but so had he, and he ponders what could make it up to her. “But I’ll come find you in the morning?”

“Deal!” she beams, giving the kid in his arms a quick pat on his wrinkled head.

The other kid’s quickly bid their goodbyes and Omera returns with a small parcel for him, reporting that a few others are currently packing large baskets and crates of supplies onto the speeder for the Mandalorians.

He thanks her quickly, and it seems to be an unspoken agreement between them to not linger on farewells, or else they’ll wind up like they were outside the hall just before. Clutching each other close in a desperate _kov’nyn,_ lips shaking with the urge to breach the beskar barrier between them, breath carrying uttered confessions.

None of that would do them any good now, so he swings up onto the speeder with a parting nod to the small collection of villagers there and begins the journey to the outpost.

He settles against the railing for a moment, ankles crossed and helmet lulling, and the kid seems to take advantage of his near slumbering posture and carefully scales the obstacle of Din’s legs. The weight is feather light and he can tell the little one is trying his best to go unnoticed, casting a sneaky eye back to see if he has been found out, and it makes Din realise the kid thinks he has already fallen asleep.

Din feels his lips quirking into a curious smirk at what the little one is playing at, until he realises his trajectory is for the packed lunch for the Mandalorians.

“How can you still be hungry?” he asks into the gentle noises of the forest, and the kid immediately freezes, little hands half outstretched towards the basket.

His ears flap in the wind as he plays innocent, a soft coo his only response. For whatever reason though, he abandons those plans and instead waddles to Din’s side, settling in amongst the gathered fabric of his cloak and giving a final chirp before closing his big eyes. The little one never ceases to amaze him, and Din cannot help the soft chuckle he gives as he tucks the boy in closer.

He watches him for a few minutes, as his little face relaxes and his mouth drops open in sleep. Careful to not disrupt him, Din reaches into the crate at his side and begins meticulously working on the salvaged beskar, cleaning it down and polishing it.

It is scorched and chipped in places, circuitry fried, evidence of the perilous odds the Mandalorians had faced, but Din knows there is no point repairing it. The Armourer will melt it down to forge _beskar’gam_ anew, and the Mandalorian’s legacy would live on as their beskar protected new owners.

This was the Way, but it didn’t make it any easier.

He works through it methodically, with a distant detachment that allows him to separate the task from his feelings of failure. And when he is finally done, he sees the kid is still asleep and figures he might as well rest his own eyes too, as much as his anxieties over what the kid could get into will allow.

He doesn’t quite fall asleep, is still alert of his surroundings, but is surprised when he opens his eyes again and takes in the quiet forest and dappled light, noticing that they are nearing the outpost. Glancing down he sees the kid is still bundled up and asleep, the steady rocking of the speeder causing puffed out cheeks to quiver as he softly snores. It brings a small smile to Din’s face and he hates having to wake the little one as the speeder rounds the corner of the dirt track and the outpost looms ahead.

“Come on, _ad’ika_ ,” he says softly to the boy and jostles him carefully. “We’re here.”

It takes the kid a few seconds to blink the disorientation from his gaze, groggily waking and warbling up at Din. And in that short time, the Mandalorians have assembled out the front of the outpost to watch their approach.

The speeder pulls over to the brush and staggers to a stop out of overhead sight, concealed by the thick canopy. He has barely composed himself to swing down from the speeder before the twins come tearing out of the gates to meet him.

He gets both his feet on the ground just as they come skidding to a stop before him, the beaming smiles adorning their faces so unfamiliar that he is taken aback for a second. Staying with the village had clearly done them a world of good.

They seem almost conflicted, as if they want to step closer but are also cautious, and he thinks again that it must be from the onslaught of unfamiliar affection the village had no doubt thrown upon them. And that concept makes his heart thud, for the difference between children born into their tribe and those of the village was vast.

It is not to say that the Mandalorians did not care for their children, because they did, but affection was demonstrated in less overt ways. And he is finding himself getting more accustomed to the physical displays, from Omera of course, but also Winta and the other children, and he _craves_ it in a way he never thought he would.

“Hey,” he greets them, the kid gathered in one arm and he uses the other to ruffle Ryelle’s hair, and then Kyan’s. Not quite an embrace, but somewhere in between. They swat at his hand, but their smiles don’t falter as they greet him.

By now the rest of the Mandalorians have approached, and the Armourer is the first to offer her arm for him to clasp, “We were relieved to hear of your return, welcome home.”

“Thank you,” he replies, nodding to the others before Ryelle takes the kid from his arms and they all gather the supply crates and head into the commons.

The Mandalorians all seem to perk up at the mention of lunch brought from the village, most notably so being the twins, who Din finds out have been gushing about the food they’d eaten during his absence.

Kyan, Ryelle, Willa and the kid are each set up with a generous helping of the packed food, eagerly digging in at one of the tables, and the rest of the Mandalorians occupy another nearby. They opt to save their portions for later, though judging by the way Paz watches the kids practically inhale the food, it is likely not his first decision.

Din is debating what to say, struggling with his words as his foot taps softly, hand settling on his sidearm out of habit. There wasn’t really much more to say anyway, he’d told the tale of the Mandalorian’s end over the com-link, and the crates he brought back to the outpost speak for themselves.

Whether she senses his nerves or not, Din is unsure, but the Armourer strikes up easy conversation.

“The twins speak very highly of their time with the farmers,” she begins, helmet’s visor cast over to watch them eating briefly before turning to focus on Din. “We are grateful to them for their continual support.”

His foot halts and he rests his arms on the table, fingers laced before him, “They are kind, every one of them. I’m afraid I will never be able to repay them for what they have done for me and the child.”

“It appears to be a two-way street,” she counters, inclining her helmet back at the table where the twins eat. “They said you are thought of often in the village, the weight of your absence was felt heavily. By everyone, not just Omera.”

He feels his face heat beneath the helmet, his heart thump with pride, but he isn’t sure how to respond when Ava butts in.

“It’s true, I could tell even in the short time we were there. And when I’ve spoken to Omera and when she stopped in the other day, she’s missed you, along with everyone else.”

He is quiet for a moment, letting it sink in and he feels the weight of it all come crashing down on his shoulders. Of doing his part in rebuilding the Covert, but also honouring the commitment he must make to himself and Omera.

As perceptive as ever, the Armourer seems to sense his conflict and treads carefully, “What troubles you still?”

“I rushed because I missed her too,” he confesses, voice thick and brow furrowed beneath the beskar. “I couldn’t save them because I was unprepared.”

“The odds were against them from the beginning. You helped even those odds, but they were lost long before you were able to get there. What’s done is done.”

“It’s a mess,” he finally sighs, shaking his head as he picks at his fingers absently. “Everything. I don’t know where to begin. I made sure I wasn’t followed back here, but my ship has taken damage too. Between the Crest and your ship, we won’t be able to collect our people any time soon unless they can find their own transport here.”

“I have already told our people to stay put if possible. We cannot risk them being seen on public transport coming to Sorgan, it would put the village at risk as well as ourselves. We will not let harm come upon the village,” the Armourer explains, and Din shoots his gaze up to her now.

Trailing his gaze around he sees the other Mandalorians all nodding in agreement, as if this were something they had already discussed and decided upon.

He hums in response and tries to keep the choked emotions at bay. His tribe were good Mandalorians, good _people_ , but to hear them express concern for the village and actively protect it, overwhelmed Din in a way that seemed to be pretty common these days.

“We’ve instructed them to get within range and hang tight until we can organise to retrieve them as soon as possible,” Paz continues, drawing Din’s attention. “If necessary, they can get a transport ship here, but we just cannot afford to have that many of us noticed. We will protect your _riduur_ and her people at all costs.”

And somehow it means so much more coming from Paz, a Mandalorian that Din had thought to be so against outsiders. Something had changed for Paz since Nevarro, or perhaps what happened on Nevarro had changed _him._

Either way, Din feels his spirits lifted, as if his decisions aren’t so impossible and that he truly doesn’t have to lose one part of his life for the other.

“I will repair the ships,” Din explains, voice strong and sure in a way that had been lacking before now. “Then I will ask Omera to be my _riduur_.”

There is a brief pause as the Mandalorians look to one another before the Armourer speaks up again, “Din, your clan comes first, then the tribe. Do what is right for you, make Omera your _riduur_. You are unsettled without her, and frankly no good to anyone.”

“I’d do it quick, runt,” Paz chimes in, the gravity of his tone from before completely gone now. “Before she comes to her senses.”

Between the Armourer’s half-hearted insult and Paz’s full-hearted one, Din feels his mind is muddled.

“The ships–,” he finally voices lamely, though is cut off by the Armourer’s stern reply.

“–Will wait. It is alright Din,” she says kindly, and he fights his jumping reaction as Ava settles a firm hand over his fidgeting ones. “Serve yourself so you can serve the tribe. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” the gathered Mandalorians echo.

And Din sighs. Not in his usual ‘done with this’ manner, but in relief as the weight he had shouldered alone is now redistributed.

“This is the Way,” he croaks. “Thank you.”

Soon after the Mandalorians all break off to their rooms to eat the food brought from the village, Paz leading the charge by dishing himself a large helping and heading off.

Din follows the Armourer to the warehouse that holds the armoury at the back of the compound, each carrying a crate of beskar with the kid perched atop Din’s.

“Your chest plate has sustained significant damage,” the Armourer’s voice cuts through the air as Din sets his crate down on the bench. “I’ll repair it for you and restock your munitions.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, removing the chest plate and his vambraces as the kid watches with a curious coo.

“You should eat,” she suggests, dropping the salvaged armour through the blue flames with cool detachment. “I’ll watch the child. He should learn the craft of our _beskar’gam_.”

Din considers it for all of a second before giving a nod and lifting the kid to sit on a box, out of the way but still where he’ll be able to watch her work.

“Be good, _ad’ika_ ,” he warns with a stern finger pointed at the boy before turning on his heel and leaving, feeling the tips of his ears burning at the light chuckle the Armourer is unable to mask.

…

By the time they return to the village, beskar gleaming and weapons replenished, it is late at night and his nerves are eating at him. Everyone has settled in for the night, only the odd porch lantern illuminated, and although he desperately wants to see Omera, he is worried he will get ahead of himself and go about it all wrong.

He wants to do this right, worthy of a woman such as Omera. Who is kind and compassionate without a shred of weakness. So, he trudges into the barn with a groggy kid tucked into his arm, pulling the pallet across the entrance and settling in for the night.

The next morning, he finds he had slept as well as he imagined he would, and nothing like the blissful sleep he’d had the night before with Omera huddled against his shoulder. Instead he’d tossed and turned, unable to shut his mind off enough to let consciousness wane. Even the kid had grumbled at him from his crib, big eyes bleary and distant.

Even worse was that Din couldn’t face venturing into the hall for breakfast in case he ran into Omera first and blurted everything. So, he waited around in the barn, sitting at the bench by the window tuning his weapons and armour, a task entirely unnecessary given that they’d been looked over just the day prior by the Armourer.

He can hear the village children laughing and cheering as they dart around the hall, skipping between water troughs and skidding on the loose dirt paths. The kid is perched on the bench before him, and Din can see as his ears perk up and he spins to look out the window.

There are no lessons today, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing.

At the sight of a blur of teal streaking across the opening in the wicker walls, the little one scrambles to his clawed feet and stretches up to check out what’s going on. The village is into the swing of a lazy work day, as close to a day off as a harvesting farm can have, and the kids occupy themselves under the watchful eye of parents nearby.

He sees Winta but cannot see Omera, and is slightly surprised that she hadn’t stepped up onto his porch with a large tray of food in offering. Nevertheless, Din figures now was as good a time as any and steels his breath to haul himself from his seat and approach a frazzled Winta outside.

She is catching her breath from whatever recent game she had partaken in, eyes wild and hair even wilder as her cheeks are flushed a deep red. She is rambling off something to the other kids beside her between heavy breaths, but she hasn’t noticed Din yet.

“Kid,” he says softly to get her attention once he is within earshot. She snaps her eyes to him and her laboured breathing ceases until she is beaming. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She gives an even wider smile and nods eagerly, barking out a quick excuse to the other kids before collecting herself and prancing over to his side.

“What’s up?” she asks, head cocked to the side and reaching to bop the little one’s nose.

Rather than say anything just yet, he inclines his head off to the side and waits for her to catch his meaning. He can see the moment she gets it and then he is leading the way past the village huts until they stand before the large tree in his usual spot by the flower-adorned grave site.

His palms suddenly feel clammy and his cloak is threatening to suffocate him despite being relatively roomy. He draws breath in through gritted teeth and swallows down his nerves.

“You asked me once if I liked your mother… and said it was okay if I did,” he begins in a voice that is thick and rasping despite his best efforts to remain nonchalant. “What about now? Do you still feel that way?”

Recognition lights her warm eyes, so like her mother’s, and Din finds himself momentarily at ease in their familiar depths. But then Winta is bobbing on the spot, jittery energy charging the air around them until Din feels it zapping through the beskar too.

“I knew it!” She exclaims, clapping her hands together in front of her chest and causing Din to shift his weight between his feet. “You like Mama, don’t you?”

He gives her a pointed look through the visor, because she hasn’t answered whether it was okay or not, but she merely stares on blankly with a smile as if awaiting _his_ response. She clearly isn’t getting the hint as she plonks herself down, cheeks stretched in a happy grin as she squints up at him.

He gives a sigh and eases himself down too, leaning against the tree trunk and setting the little one onto the grass at his side.

“Yes,” he utters. “Very much. How do you feel about that?”

Her beaming grin drops from her face as her mouth twists into a perplexed pout, head cocked to the side, “Why does it matter how I feel?”

“It matters because…,” he begins as he fidgets with the kid’s robe, clearing his throat and fighting the instinct to drop the topic. “Because I want to marry her, if it’s okay with you. Because I want her to be part of my clan, and you too, like the kid is.”

Winta’s eyes have widened comically by now, her mouth dropping open before she recovers herself and blinks at him, “Me? ... A Mandalorian?”

His lips twitch at the only slight mispronunciation and he shakes his head, “You don’t have to be Mandalorian to be my clan. I would like to share my culture with you, teach you about it, but that is as far as it needs to go.”

It is a lot for one so young to take in, so he gives her a few moments before continuing. And once the words start flowing, he finds they come remarkably easy.

“I want you to be comfortable with that, completely, otherwise it won’t happen,” he explains, because nothing was more important than that. He could bottle up his feelings, knows it is probably what is best for them, but his selfishness won’t allow him to do that unless they order him away. And as painful as that is to admit, he has to accept that it is a possibility. “Nothing has to change even if you decide it is okay, I still have to ask your mother too. Being with me, it might not be what she wants.”

Winta listens intently, eyes alight and enthralled, but then she is screwing her face up at the last part of his speech, looking at him as if he has grown another helmeted head.

“I think she likes you, like _a lot._ ”

He cannot help but smile at her enthusiasm, “I hope so.”

For a moment she just grins at him, knees fidgeting in her crossed leg position as if she cannot sit still, but then she sobers, brow drawn in worry.

“It’s what you want? Mama spoke to me about it before.”

“What do you mean?” he asks and sees how she hesitates. He feels his chest constrict at the expression on her face.

“Mama told me to not make you choose, because you always put others before yourself and would even do something you don’t wanna just to make someone else happy.”

He doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but definitely not that. He is entirely unused to his wishes being considered, even though that had been the case often since his time with the village. With the tribe it was second nature to put one’s own wishes behind those of the tribe, and he thinks himself stupid for thinking Omera wouldn’t recognise that about him.

“It was something I never knew I wanted until I met your mother,” he confesses, and watches as the doubt washes from Winta’s face to be overtaken with a shy smile as she avoids his gaze.

“You’ll be my dad?” she asks, immediately setting his heart rate into a frantic rhythm. “I’ve never had a dad…”

The tightness in his chest returns, because this girl hadn’t known her father, and now she’d be stuck with him and he was a pretty sore excuse for one.

“Yes, you have. You may not have met him, but you have always had a father,” he tells her gently, and like before, the words continue to flow, chipping away at the insecurities clearly seen on her face. “He watches over you in the stars, is tied to you in the threads you wear in your hair and in your collar. And he’d be very proud of you.”

He feels decidedly choked at the end of his spiel, and Winta’s face is pink and cheery as she gently fondles the end of the intricate braid drawing her hair back from her face.

It feels like a lifetime ago when he’d first been introduced to the village’s traditions of threads at the funeral pyre. Back then he’d thought it was a nice sentiment, and as time has worn on, he’s begun to feel a deep connection to this place, just as their tradition dictates.

 _May your soul find ties here_ … And his had.

He isn’t really sure what else to say, and just works up to making small talk when a couple of the village kids come running over to their position.

“Winta! You gotta come back!” One calls as they skid to a stop.

“Yeah! We’re getting creamed,” the other cries.

And Winta looks conflicted, like she’d like to stay and chat more, but the pull of the game is getting to her too. When she looks to Din, he gives her a nod and waves her off. She scrambles over on her knees to pat the kid on his little head and give Din a shy smile.

“It’s okay with me,” she whispers as if in conspiracy. “Like really, _really_ okay… More than okay, I mean... I kinda think it would be cool if you were my dad too.”

It somehow makes his stomach churn in both happiness and nerves to hear her say it, and despite that, he feels a soft chuckle rise up in his throat.

“Then I will ask her soon,” he murmurs quietly back, and her shy smile stretches into a toothy grin.

He smiles back beneath the helmet and inclines his head to her friends, encouraging her on, and she gives a nod before jumping to her feet and rushing over to them.

“S-Sorry, mister Din!” One throws over his shoulder nervously, but lights up once more when Din tips his helmet in acknowledgment.

Once they have disappeared from sight, he lets out a long sigh. His discussion with Winta had been weighing on his mind ever since he’d decided to make Omera his _riduur_ , if she’d have him. But the girl had once again blown his expectations cleanly out of the water. She was a great kid, and he feels his chest tighten not for the first time at the prospect of also being her father.

He allows himself a moment to settle his nerves and unwind from all the tension he’d felt leading up to his conversation with Winta, gently resting his hand on the kid’s back. The little one looks over his shoulder at him with a questioning coo before returning to playing with the blades of grass.

It is not long until he hears the approach of a confident gait, and he doesn’t have to look up to know the owner of those particular boots.

Cara doesn’t wait for an invitation and instead throws herself down across from him where Winta had sat just before, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he nods.

“So what’s up with you and Omera?” she asks, a sternness to her eyes that he is unfamiliar with. Normally these conversations were full of suggestive smirks and mirth.

No matter whatever reason was causing her to look at him as such, he is glad she has sought him out rather than him having to go find her and risk bumping into Omera first. If he was going to pull this off, he’d need her help.

“I’m going to ask her to marry me,” he tells her, and is surprised how it is getting easier each time he has to confess it.

Clearly she hadn’t been expecting that, because she sits up straighter and her eyes widen. Din wonders if it is too much to ask to be saved of her teasing for once.

“Kriff!” she splutters, mouth twisted in a lopsided grin. “Here I was thinking I was going to have to come over and tell you to put your big boy helmet on. I was gonna say I’ll kick your ass _again_ if you ever hurt Omera.”

Ah, so that explains her grim expression from before, but he is still none the wiser about why.

“What’s this about?” he asks, confusion clear in his tone.

“She thinks maybe you are avoiding her because she hasn’t seen you since you got back,” Cara explains. “Is worried maybe something happened at the outpost. So I was ready to knock some sense into you.”

 _Di’kut_ , he thinks. He’s been so preoccupied and nervous about doing it right that he hadn’t considered how it would seem from outside his chaotic mind.

“Kriff,” he hisses this time, running a frustrated hand over his helmet. “I wanted to ask Winta’s permission first. I wanted to make sure I was doing this right.”

“No harm done,” she says with a shrug of her shoulder, a soft kindness to her eyes instead of the characteristic booming laughter. “And I think a proposal more than makes up for it. You really don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Din’s helmet swivels to face her and he stares on blankly.

He sighs. It is definitely too much to ask.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omera convinces herself of the worst case scenario, but Din finally sets things straight!

Omera tries to not let her mind wander as she sits alone in the shed, shucking a small basketful of krill. It is just the beginning of the harvest so there really isn’t much work to be done, definitely does not necessitate the normal two people for her current task, but she would gladly welcome the company now to distract her from the doubts in her mind.

She hadn’t seen Din even though she knows he must have returned judging by the speeder parked by the well. He’d said he’d be back at night, probably late, so she hadn’t really expected him to seek her out last night. But he hadn’t been at breakfast in the hall either, instead he remained boarded up in the barn.

She’d been known to bring meals to him often, and had almost considered doing it this morning too, but had second thoughts and didn’t want to invade his privacy.

Her chest tightens to think something must have happened when he went to his people, because the man that left yesterday had held her almost desperately, as if leaving was the last thing he wanted to do.

She’d thought she got on well with the Mandalorians, that they liked her even. When she had made the trip there the other day with Cara and the twins, they had welcomed them with the Mandalorian equivalent of open arms, she’d thought.

Maybe they blame her for those they’d lost, the Mandalorians Din hadn’t been able to save.

Maybe they resent Din spending time at the village and have put pressure on him to return to them.

Tears prick at the back of her eyes as she tosses the prepared krill she’d finished with into a basket and collects another.

It can’t be that. Surely Din would not have returned at all if that was the case.

She hates feeling this way, hadn’t been this insecure and unsure since she was a teenager, and definitely not the strong woman Din’s mind had likely built her up to be.

Distracted with her mind’s musings and eyes distant as they stare blankly at the shed wall, she lets out a quiet hiss through her teeth at the sudden sharp pain at her thumb. Looking down she sees the paring knife she is using had slipped, the tip slicing into the flesh of her thumb, a small bubble of blood oozing up through the small slash.

She sighs, frustrated at herself as she brushes the small drop of blood away and holds pressure there with her index finger. She hadn’t cut herself doing this for years and tries to shake the negativity from her mind before she loses a finger entirely.

In a way the slip was a good thing, because it was just enough of a wake-up call to force her to stop being silly and get on with it. Whatever will be, will be, and she just needs to let the cards fall where they may, there is little more she can do.

She returns to her task now that she has stilted the bleeding, and continues on peeling and deveining the krill with practiced precision, her hands knowing the movements the same way her lungs know to draw breath. And she pushes Din from her mind, settles in with the comfort of not having to think of anything.

She is halfway through the basket when she hears the soft pitter-patter of small boots on the dirt outside, and Winta appears in the doorway with a toothy grin, “Hey Mama.”

She smiles at her daughter as the girl skips inside, dragging a high stool from the corner over and jumping up to perch on it, knees bobbing excitedly.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Omera chuckles, turning back to her work and awaiting her daughter’s response.

Winta beams down at her with a shrug, sitting on her hands and swinging her legs, “Nothing.”

She gives her daughter a quizzical look, but her lips are curled into a smile too. Whatever the reason behind her good mood, Omera wouldn’t pry, and is instead just thankful for the company.

Cara comes waltzing into the shed soon after, taking a large bite from the piece of fruit in her hand that she must have swiped from the kitchen.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she grins around a mouthful.

“Finished with your morning stroll?” Omera asks with a humoured smile.

Cara still did her routine perimeter checks, even now, when they hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary for months. She thinks it is a force of habit, and maybe Cara’s way of being able to relax and unwind. Either way, the village is grateful for her watchful eye.

The other woman grins back at her, finishing off her last mouthful and unhitching herself from the shed wall.

“Scooch over, Squirt,” she says, nudging Winta’s dangling legs with a hip and seating herself down on an overturned basket. She pulls a small knife from her boot and begins to shuck the krill too.

Omera had shown Cara the basic techniques of preparing the krill meat, and she had been a quick learner. The woman had the added advantage of already knowing her way around a knife, even if she did tend to mangle the flesh a little. But there was never any shortage of the little blue creatures, thankfully, so every helping hand was greatly appreciated.

They make small talk as they work, Winta triumphantly retelling the story of her team’s victory at the game they had been playing this morning. The conversation flows easy, laughing together and discussing the villages’ day off.

And despite the pleasantries, Omera is desperate to ask about Din, whether Cara had spoken to him, or even seen him. She’d voiced her concerns to the woman upon waking this morning, and Cara had reassured her somewhat, but not nearly enough. Omera holds her tongue now though, as long as she can, until a sneaking glance out the side of her eye shows Cara’s lips pursed in thought, as if something was on her mind. Though there is still a certain amount of smirk in the curl of her mouth.

“Din wanted to talk to you,” Cara voices, the same twist to her lips as she focusses completely on the krill in her hand.

The mention of Din sets Omera’s heart racing, and she is thankful that she isn’t the one to bring him up this time, because two seconds later it might have been a very different story.

“You’ve seen him this morning?” she finally replies after a moment, thinking she maybe just managed to make her tone come across as casual.

“Yeah, I saw him at the gravesite,” Cara explains, and her and Winta share a look Omera cannot hope to understand. “He told me he wants to speak to you.”

Her fingers halt on the particular krill she had just started to devein, and she shoots her eyes to inspect Cara’s face, “Is everything alright? Is he okay?”

She is already up on her feet, krill and knife abandoned as she tugs off her apron and briskly washes her hands.

“I don’t know if that man is ever alright,” she laughs, inspecting the meat she’d just finished and flicking it into the prepped basket. She must feel Omera’s worried eyes on her, because then she meets her gaze and gives a shrug at her pointed stare. "But yeah, I think so, ‘seems okay. You should go see him.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice and quickly heads out of the shed in the direction of the wildflower field. She tries to relax her features into a calm mask and keep a steady pace after she passes a fearful looking Caben. The man ducks out of the way so quickly she hates to think what she must have looked like to cause such a reaction from him.

She wishes it weren’t the way, but her mind automatically considers the worst-case scenario, and her fractured heart threatens to stop beating all together. She wills herself to take calming breaths. Whatever Din says, she will be respectful and understanding, as she had always promised him, and herself, she’d be.

She just isn’t sure how she’s supposed to tell Winta, the girl had gotten so attached.

She has just reached the edge of the field when she sees Din on the other side, sitting with his boy under a tree and not yet aware of her approach. Her hands still tingle from the soap as she wrings them nervously in her skirts, hoping she hasn’t got krill guts all over her.

She figures there is no point prolonging it, so she walks over to him and he looks up when she is but a few paces from him.

His boy is napping at his side amongst the grass, an assortment of flower stems and petals scattered around his sleeping form. She feels a smile at the sight tug at the corner of her mouth, but when her eyes flicker to Din she bites the inside of her cheek in concern.

He looks nervous, the line of his shoulders stiff, hands flighty, and she furiously wishes to be able to see his face. A face that doesn’t have a hope of hiding his emotions. She hates that she’s put him in this position, made him think he has to choose, but she has a feeling that the choice had never been his to make. It came down to loyalty and culture, and she is no competition for that.

“Cara said…,” she begins, words escaping her for a moment. She wonders if he can hear the concern in her voice even as she tries to hide it. “She said you wanted to talk. Is everything alright?”

He fidgets in his spot, straightening his back from where he had been previously slumped against the tree, and she eases down to kneel just before him. Remaining a respectable distance away, and nowhere near as close as she wishes to be.

After a quick glance to his boy, Din draws his knees up and shuffles towards her on the grass until the toe of his boot just barely brushes her knee. With his knees bent up and elbows resting over the top, she notices now that his gloves are off, and he holds one of the wildflowers between his long fingers. This one has all its petals, unlike those around his boy, and in any other circumstance she would smile at the thought of the small boy plucking the petals one by one.

Din’s visor is trained on his hands as he twirls the bloom slowly, the care and tenderness with which he holds the delicate stem seeming so out of place in the hands of an armoured bounty hunter. But in the hands of the Din she knows? It makes perfect sense; he’d held her the same.

“What would you think if I was no longer Mandalorian?” he asks softly, voice low and a nervous edge to his fingers as he places the flower down and focusses his helmeted gaze on her.

It is the last thing she had expected him to say, her mouth opening and closing as she stammers. Her mind had prepared a number of responses to any question other than that.

“You once told me you respected and admired my dedication to the Creed,” he explains when he must see the confusion written plainly on her face. His voice is choked and hesitant as he shifts his gaze from her once more, and her heart aches for him. “Is that what you like about me?”

She doesn’t know what he is getting at, he seems so self-conscious, and none of it makes any sense to her. But being Mandalorian is only part of who he is, so she shakes her head at him.

“I like you for _you_ , not your culture,” she begins, looking into his visor and trying to decipher what must be going on inside his helmet. “It is one thing I like about you, yes. Not necessarily just to your people, but your dedication to everything you do. Your kindness, your heart, your _soul_.”

She knits her fingers together in her lap to stop them from reaching for him as they long to, and she knows she likely only has limited time to make her point, so she rushes ahead.

“I know you think you have to choose, Din, but you really _don’t_. I never wanted to put you in this position.”

“I am conflicted,” he confesses before she has even really finished, still not looking at her, and she feels her face crumpling despite her best efforts. “I’ve spent my life trying to belong somewhere, never found anywhere worth settling outside of my tribe. I thought the only soul I had was Mando…”

He trails off with a sigh, but she doesn’t dare interrupt. Instead she listens, carefully focussed on his words even as her heart is breaking.

“But my soul has found ties here. I know I have nothing to offer, and I’ve already tainted this place so much, yet the most selfish thing I’ll ever do is ask to stay.”

He had rushed to get the last part out and she finds herself shaking her head as she tries to catch up, to disagree, “You’ll always have a place here. You don’t even have to ask–”

“–Ask to stay… and ask you to be my _riduur_ , my wife.”

Her response dies on her tongue as his words sink in. She can feel the intensity of his gaze from behind the visor now, and she is so startled at the turn of events that her mind just blanks, though the realisation of what he’d just said flickers deep within the fog of her thoughts. Her heart accelerates, thumping frantically within her ribs as she pleads to the stars above that she hadn’t misheard him.

“I am conflicted about everything. Except this. It would change nothing for you and Winta, not if you don't want,” he begins again, words tumbling over each other and her mind desperately tries to keep up amongst the pure joy erupting within her. “I might have to leave from time to time, but it wouldn't be for long, and I would always come back to you, to my _aliit_. I can’t tell you what my future holds, but I will always protect you and Winta with my life. And if you want a bigger family…”

He suddenly stops his rambling, likely disheartened by her lack of outward response, and gently settles a hesitant hand over hers, "If this isn’t what you want, if you have any doubts...”

She quickly flips her hands over and clutches his fingers before they begin to retreat, a watery smile overtaking her face now that she is finally over the initial shock of it all.

"I am speechless because I’m so happy, not because I have doubts,” she laughs softly, all breath and joy. “That… it is all that I want."

And the tension leaves him in a soft laugh too, as if he can’t quite believe it either. She blinks the tears from her eyes and shuffles closer to him on her knees. But then there is a slight tremor in Din’s fingers and he clears his throat quickly as he also shuffles closer. Until she sits almost between his bent knees, and she blushes to think how it must look.

“Mandalorian vows, it is said and it is so, no one needs to witness it,” he elaborates, a nervous edge to his voice as he continues. “So, it could be whenever, it could be now. But I’d like to follow your customs too. A marriage in both.”

“For us, one of the elders can do it, no other witnesses are needed,” she explains with a gentle smile, hoping that somehow relieves his anxiety.

He hesitates again, helmet cocked to the side, “You don’t want a wedding? A party?”

“I don’t need that,” she shakes her head. “I don’t need anything. I know you are a private person. I only want you. So, it could also be whenever. Tonight, in secret if you wanted.”

She imagines his small smile in the exhale she hears as he threads his fingers through her own, “I want everyone to know you are mine, surely they already know I’m yours. I have been since the very beginning.”

She laughs softly at that, she supposes both her and Din haven’t been fooling anyone.

“They already know. I think half of them suspected it a long time ago,” she says, thinking of the knowing looks shared between the village women and feeling her face heat. “I want to share this with just you, just us, I don’t need anything else. I’ll talk to Winta first, though I doubt she will be anything other than ecstatic.”

There is something about the tilt of his helmet and rise of a shoulder that makes her think he looks a little guilty, and she looks to him in question.

“I actually already asked her permission,” he confesses, his free hand running over the back of his helmet out of habit. “I wanted to make sure she was okay with it.”

It touches Omera in a way she hadn’t thought it would. Din is the kindest soul she knows, and she always knew he was thoughtful, ever since Winta’s confession of accidentally calling him ‘Dad’ all those months ago. It is a surreal feeling to think that that wasn’t so absurd after all.

The memory of how it had made her heart flutter at the time makes her flush further now, and she ducks her head with a soft laugh into her shoulder, “I imagine she was more than okay with it.”

“Maybe,” Din responds, the tiniest speck of smugness in his voice as he takes her hand and brings it to his helmet check. “Tonight then?”

She grins back at him, her heart in her throat as she uses her free hand for leverage on his knee at her side. She leans forward and gently presses her forehead to his helmet in a _kov’nyn_.

“Tonight,” she agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am freaking DEVASTATED after the recent episode 😭 so I had to finish this off to piece together my broken heart. 
> 
> And it’s finally happened! 🥰 The slow burn has been pretty slow, but we got there! 
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there for the long haul ❤️


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are put in place, and Din and Omera struggle to calm their nerves!

“Tonight,” she agrees, and Din feels her blissful smile mirrored on his own lips.

The relief he feels almost makes him want to laugh; an incredulous, full-bodied laugh, because this is the furthest from the future he had ever dreamt of for himself.

Instead, he gives a soft hum in approval. His bare fingers hold her hand gently to the side of his helmet, and he is torn between leaving them there and trailing them along her arm, splay his hands around her shoulder blades and pull her down on top of him. Although no one pays them any mind, he is still conscious that they are in plain sight, and also conscious of the very slight crunch of dirt under light boots.

She has improved significantly, but the tell-tale heavy breaths still give her away.

He gives a final nudge against Omera before moving back and she squeezes his knee gently as she too withdraws. He isn’t sure if she hears the approach as well, but she sits back on her heels anyway, hands clasped in her lap and pink colouring her smiling cheeks.

He scoots back from her a little and rests his elbows back over the top of his bent knees.

“You’re getting better,” he calls over his shoulder and watches as Omera cocks her head quizzically, though the smile never leaves her face as her eyes flicker behind him. “But your breathing still gives you away.”

There is a second’s silence before Winta makes an exaggerated huff of disappointment and comes trudging over from behind the tree, dragging her feet. It is short lived, however, because once she catches a glance at the both of them, the kid nestled amongst the grass at their side, she comes skipping over with a wide grin.

Winta throws herself down beside the little one, clearly unaware that he had been sleeping because she gives a sheepish look when he stirs, blinking groggy eyes and stretching his little arms out.

“Sorry,” she cringes, avoiding Din’s gaze and looking to her mother for guidance.

“It’s alright,” Din waves off her concern, plucking the stray flower from the ground before him and passing it to the kid now that he’s fumbled his way into a seated position. “He’s slept long enough, the little Womp Rat.”

It has Winta giggling, and he shoots a quick look to Omera to find she is watching the exchange with a tender smile adorning her face. He is distracted watching her for a moment, and when he looks to Winta and the kid once more, he sees the girl is giving him a pointed look. Eyes wide and imploring, Din doesn’t know what she’s getting at, until she jerks her chin at Omera in what he guesses is supposed to be a subtle indication.

It is almost comical, and he teasingly acts like he doesn’t know what she is getting at, cocks his helmet to the side in question. He feels sorry for her, she looks somewhat frantic as she tries to convey her question about whether he had asked or not, but he supposes he is just in such a good mood because he is still riding on the relief that Omera had agreed.

“Did you…,” Winta tries again, trying to speak under her breath. “You know…?”

Omera had clearly been confused up until now, and then blushes prettily when Winta’s words sink in. Din figures he has had his fun by now and finally nods to put the poor girl out of her misery. She perks up immediately, back straightening and mouth falling open as a million questions no doubt fly through her thoughts.

She stammers, indistinct utterances leaving her as she whips her head back and forth between the two of them, but the toothy grin plastered over her face is blinding. The kid seems to get swept up in her joy too as he begins chirping excitedly, waving the flower around wildly in one of his hands.

“Mama…?” the girl laughs, focusing her intense gaze on Omera now.

And her mother has a tender smile on her face as she nods too.

Winta’s grin spreads even wider, if possible, and she scrambles along the ground towards her mother, capturing her in a tight embrace that has Omera laughing softly. Her gentle gaze meets him over the top of Winta’s unruly head and he feels his heart thud beneath the beskar, as he acknowledges that this is his Way, finally.

“Can I hug him too?” he just catches Winta whisper softly, and he feels mixed emotions about it.

Affection was still unfamiliar to him, physically in particular, but he found himself craving it. Winta had embraced him a few times, and it was generally a spur of the moment kind of thing, but his stomach now sinks to think the girl is unsure, asking for her mother’s direction.

Omera’s eyes had been trained on her daughter when she’d asked, but now they flicker to Din and he doesn’t have a hope of reading whatever is lighting them. Perhaps it is quietly curious, never forceful or judging, but merely wondering what his reaction might be.

Winta now looks to him out the corner of her eye, and he drops his knees down, hands resting lightly atop his thighs in the most open posture he can manage. His hand makes the minute movement to reach out towards her as Omera gives her a gentle tap in his direction for reassurance, and then the girl is bounding over to him in glee.

Her small body crashes into him with a force he had not been anticipating. It nearly topples the two of them back into the grass before he manages to correct their position. He chuckles softly as her arms wrap tightly around his neck and he gives her back a hesitant pat.

A quiet warble from their side alerts them to the kid, bottom lip jutted out and trembling. Din thinks he must be unimpressed at being left out, until he sees the limp flower stem cradled in his little claws, petals freshly plucked. It has Winta giggling as she pulls back, face flushed with what he assumes is both joy and embarrassment at her outburst.

“Don’t worry _ad’ika_ , we’ll get ya some more,” she tells the little one cheerily, knocking her forehead to Din’s helmet quickly before swivelling around to scoop the kid up. Din is still momentarily taken aback as he watches Winta frolic into the wildflower field with the kid, disappearing amongst the long stems only to pop her head back up with an expectant look. “Come on!”

The heat in Din’s face has flooded to the tips of his ears by the time he hears Omera’s soft laugh as she gets to her feet. She offers her hands down to him and it takes him a moment to realise she means to help him up. He doesn’t hesitate to take her outstretched hands, and although he mostly stands on his own rather than her pulling him up, the whole scenario is as if it is second nature for them.

He keeps her hand lightly in his own as they venture into the wildflower field to where Winta sits with the little one, carefully selecting the strongest of stems. They settle in with them in a little huddle, the light breeze surrounding them and gently swaying the blooms of colour.

They make easy conversation, well, Omera and Winta do, and Din thinks he will just gladly listen to their soft ramblings for the rest of his life. Somehow they end up laying down, Omera sprawled before him with her hair fanned out, Winta on her stomach and fingers nimbly weaving through her mother’s hair. Din himself even reclines, propped up on an elbow on his side as Winta directs him on how to thread delicate flowers through the long locks.

A pleased hum escapes Omera as she rests her eyes, and it gives Din a strange satisfaction to know that as much as he likes trailing his fingers through her hair, she seems to enjoy it just as much. The kid does his best attempt with Winta’s hair, though it mostly consists of him thrusting handfuls of wildflowers at her head. The odd bloom finds purchase purely due to the windswept, tangle of curls that seems to be pretty standard for Winta most days.

“So you’ll start teaching me about Mandalorians?” Winta asks, flipping over to lay flat on her back with arms and legs stretched out wide now that they’re all out of braids to anchor flowers to. “The others are gonna be so jealous!”

Din falters and Omera must sense his hesitance, because her eyes blink open to catch his beneath the visor, a gentle smile offered in encouragement. He hums in agreement, and both mother and daughter appear pleased, though Winta is much more vocal about it.

It is only interrupted by a low gurgling sound, and it takes Din a moment to realise it is from his own stomach. His face flares beneath the beskar as both mother and daughter take notice, Omera pushing herself up to twist around to face him, and the drumming of Winta’s heels into the ground pausing as she cranes her neck to gaze back at him. The girl bursts out laughing the second Omera gives a light laugh, eyebrows slanting in apology.

“I suppose you haven’t eaten this morning,” she deduces, a look of guilt colouring her features.

“I’ll get it!” Winta suddenly offers, the scuffling of dirt at his side alerting him to the girl scrambling over onto her knees. “I can bring it to your hut for you.”

Winta is nodding eagerly, looking between Omera and Din for clarification as she swoops down to pick up the little one at her feet. Never one to miss out, he had been tugging at the hem on her skirts with claws stretched up until she’d realised he wanted up.

“That is a very kind offer, love, thank you,” Omera smiles fondly and Din watches as the girl beams from the recognition.

“ _Vor entye_ ,” he adds with a nod, translating just as Winta cocks her head in question. “Thank you.”

Her beaming smile from before widens further. Then she is careening through the field out of sight in a flurry of displaced flower stems, pollen billowing up and illuminated in the sunlight.

Din remains propped on his side in the aftermath of her retreat and the realisation that they are alone once more only just dawns on him, his stomach churning with nerves now as well as hunger. Omera is still sitting before him, and he takes one of her hands gently in his own to hesitantly tug her closer.

She smiles shyly but does not hesitate, follows his guiding hand even as he reclines back into the ground and attempts to pull her over him. Her slender fingers are woven through his own where their clasped hands sit atop his chest plate, her other arm supporting her on an elbow at his side as she leans over him.

Sunlight filters around her tousled hair, wayward strands caught in the light breeze and almost golden, flowers tucked snuggly amidst the lengths, ones he’d put there with Winta. It is a surreal sight, one his mind has conjured a thousand times, yet has never managed to do the real thing justice.

His free arm lays on the ground beside them and he moves it to wrap around her waist, wishing she’d rest entirely over him, but not so distracted as to forget they are in broad daylight.

This is more than enough anyway. More than he’d ever imagined for himself.

She is gazing into his visor tenderly and he realises she has been watching him as closely as he her. He makes a small croaking sound as he clears his throat, much to his embarrassment, and releases her fingers to skim his up her arm. She smiles wider and curls her fingers into the top edge of his chest plate as she shuffles closer still.

“I can’t wait to be your wife,” she says softly, pink pooling in her cheeks as she loses her nerve and avoids his visor. “Your… _ridu_ …?”

“ _Riduur_ ,” he confirms, voice thick as he watches her lips test the movement of the word.

She has a quietly curious glint in her eye as her eyes flicker his helmet, “Do Mandalorians take a family name in marriage?”

“Djarin,” his chest thuds beneath the beskar as he nods, stomach churning and a primal part of him desperate to hear it. “You’ll be Omera Djarin, if you want.”

A shy giggle escapes her, and he is surprised, not for the first time, to hear such a sound from her. Then she is moving her other arm too until both palms rest on his chest plate and he feels the comforting weight of her torso fully over his.

“I do,” she confirms softly, butting her head tenderly into his for a moment. “Mrs Djarin?”

It is impossible to swallow around the heavy lump in his throat, but he tries nonetheless because he is sure his voice will break otherwise. He gives a nod, stroking bare fingers through the lengths of her hair, careful to not dislodge any of the wildflowers, “Omera of clan Djarin.”

He is so focussed on the pleased curl of her lips, yet his heart still skips a beat as she presses them to his visor softly, over where his mouth would be, before retreating and tracing the beskar edges with a finger.

Din cranes his neck up to follow automatically, as if the beskar hadn’t been there and the taste of her wasn’t his imagination. He stops before he can make a fool of himself and smack her nose with the blunt edge of his helmet, instead allowing his head to thump back into the soft ground beneath him.

His helmet’s HUD picks up no heat signatures or movement around them, so he hesitates for only a moment before taking both her hands from where they sit on his chest. And she lets him so easily, a curious smile on her face, that he knows the trust goes both ways. He guides her hands to the sides of his helmet and relishes in the way it makes her weight settle over him more solidly, he only wishes it weren’t just her upper half.

He gives what he hopes is a reassuring nod to her, then holds his head clear of the ground and helps her lift the helmet up. He sees as her eyes greedily take in every inch of his face as it is revealed, and he thinks he may never get over the way it makes his stomach flip. He’d never given much thought to his looks before, the helmet stamping that compulsion down pretty quickly, but he is still surprised with how much she seems to appreciate his face.

Once the helmet is finally off and he can see her own face freely, she catches his eyes with hers momentarily as a wide grin lights her face. He gives a twitching return smile before she leans down and brushes her lips softly against his.

The air in his lungs leaves him all at once and he fights to not crush her against him as his arm splay her back to pull her closer. She allows herself to be led by him as he moves his mouth tenderly against hers. Her fingers trail up into his hair, twisting into the short strands and drawing a groan from him at the sensation. He is just bending the knee of his leg furthest from her up, trying to get closer in any way he can, when she reminds him of where they are with a soft laugh and placating hand to his chest as she withdraws.

He breathes a sigh, somewhere between disappointment and relief, and rests his head back down, easing the cramp he hadn’t realised was developing in his neck from the strain.

She smiles apologetically, a quick peck to his lips as she retrieves his helmet from where it had been abandoned somewhere above him, “Winta probably has your food sorted by now.”

He hums and gives her a fleeting kiss before easing the helmet back over his head.

“So, after dinner then?” she asks as she untangles herself from him and sits back on her knees. “Once darkness falls and the moon lights the ponds.”

Din lets loose a grunt as he pulls himself up too, and as if a magnet pulls him to her, he finds himself easing closer, nudging her cheek tenderly with his helmet.

“If I can wait that long,” he utters before pulling back, wanting to cringe at how pathetic he sounds until he sees the smile light her face.

It is there for a moment before it slips and her face turns serious, dark eyes flitting around his visor, “I’ve been waiting for you ever since the moment you came into my life.”

Her tone isn’t lost on him and it makes his chest thud. He tilts his head to the side and wants to kick himself thinking about it all. He’d wasted _so much time_.

He doesn’t know what to say, and for once it isn’t for lack of having anything to say, but having too much and not being able to decide where to begin. But he doesn’t need to, because the gentle smile is returning to her features as she looks down into her lap shyly, hair falling over her shoulder.

“Since the very beginning,” she elaborates. “I didn’t know it, I think maybe my heart might not have even known it, but my soul did. It was fated to be bound to yours just as you were fated to stop here.”

And everything he’d thought of to say all of a sudden means nothing. Because it doesn’t matter how long it has taken, how much pain he’s endured because of it, because there was no more waiting. He just hopes it hadn’t been as painful for her.

“Mine too,” he murmurs back, voice hoarse and choked, and she just smiles wider, knocking her forehead to his once more.

* * *

After dropping Din off at the barn with a shy smile and somewhat nervous squeeze to his bicep, Omera makes her way back to her own hut.

She feels ridiculous.

It was as if she’s been thrust back into the past, to the early days of her infatuation with Din when her stomach was in a constant riot of butterflies and her knees felt as if they might buckle underneath her. In all honesty, she still mostly felt that way around the man, but she likes to think the days of girlish shy nerves, of averted gazes and trembling touches, were behind her. She and Din had come so far, progressed so much, that this behaviour was utterly absurd in a grown woman.

But she supposes a marriage proposal does that to you, it had been so long she guesses she just must have forgotten.

She steps through the threshold of her hut to find Cara sitting at the table, discussing the rationale of one fighting technique over another. A topic that goes completely over Omera’s head, but has Winta entirely enthralled as she stands behind the woman and braids a thread into Cara’s choppy locks. Din’s boy is there too, quietly watching the two of them.

They both look up at her arrival, knowing grins on both their faces, though Cara’s holds a significant amount of smirk compared to Winta’s.

“I would tell you the news, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you already know,” she tells them as she makes her way over.

Cara just shrugs, “It’s not my fault you and Din are as oblivious as each other. Honestly, if it weren’t for my meddling, I hate to think of the tension around this place.”

Omera feels her face heat, but smiles in good nature as she settles at the table across from her as Winta continues her work on her hair.

“How did he ask? Did he do some big display?” Cara asks, face screwing up in a grimace as Winta snags a bit of her hair. “Ouch.”

“Sorry, almost done,” her daughter cringes sheepishly in return.

Omera takes a moment to smile at her daughter’s work, skilled fingers expertly weaving the luminous blue strand through the hair at the smaller side of Cara’s parting.

“He actually sort of… apologised…?” she tries to explain when Cara gives her an expectant look, one that practically screams ‘ _come on, spill’_. Omera has gotten so accustomed to what Cara doesn’t say, just like the other woman has developed an uncanny ability to read her thoughts, often before she’s even made sense of them. “… but it was perfect. I think he thought I wouldn’t like him if he wasn’t Mandalorian.”

Cara rolls her eyes with a shake of her head, causing a frantic Winta to hastily secure the end of the braid she’d just finished before all her work could be undone.

“I’m not surprised, that man is as dense as his armour,” the other woman snorts, casting her gaze sideways as Winta sits herself down with a proud grin. “Thanks, Squirt.”

“No flowers?” Omera raises a brow, teasing lilt to her voice. She doubts Cara would be caught dead with the blossoms framing her angular face.

Cara mouths the same words back to her in mockery, nose scrunched but laughter in her eyes.

“Not for me. I don’t have the face structure for that,” she retorts, and Omera barely has time to scoff and open her mouth to disagree before Cara is plodding on. “Anyway, don’t try change the subject. By when do I need to have my wedding gift organised?”

By the glint in her eyes, Omera can tell she is only half joking, and suddenly she is shy all over again just thinking about it.

“… tonight. We’ll be married tonight if one of the elders is able to do the ceremony,” she explains, her heart swelling to see Winta bobbing on her seat in excitement and the genuine happiness she sees reflected in Cara’s dark eyes.

“You two sure don’t muck around once your minds are made up. Making up for all those wasted months of pining, when you could have been–”

Omera cuts off her sentence with a sharp look, face flaring in scandal as she shoots a quick look at Winta. An unnecessary effort though as the girl just smiles on happily, none the wiser.

“–Happily married. That’s all I was gonna say,” Cara laughs, hands up in surrender, though Omera knows she is anything but innocent. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Her mouth drops open in shock, at the audacity of the woman, but she cannot help the laugh that bubbles up within her. She shakes her head to clear it, deciding to move forward rather than warrant Cara’s japes with a response.

“It will be quiet, but still a marriage in both, doing our tradition first then following Din’s customs. Neither require witnesses, but we’d like for the both of you to be there, Din’s boy too, for the village ceremony.”

Winta straightens immediately, face alight, “Really? I can come?”

Omera nods, and then Winta is bolting up from her seat excitedly, “Is it a secret?”

“No, love,” she laughs softly at her daughter’s enthusiasm and hugs her arms snugly around her when she perches herself across her lap. “But Din is very private, so it won’t be like the other weddings you’ve seen. Just our vows and that will be it.”

Winta doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, and while the content smile on her face warms Omera’s heart, it suddenly dawns on her they hadn’t discussed what would happen _after_ that.

“So tonight, huh?” Cara pipes up, stretching back to recline in her chair. “Don’t worry about me, I can see the cogs churning in your pretty head. I’m sure everyone is dying to have me stay on their couch, and if not, the barn will be up for grabs, right?”

She hates to think she was once again read so easily by the woman. She stammers to respond but Cara is already waving her off as she continues.

“Din will move in here, and not that I don’t love the both of you, but I can only take so much goo goo eyeing,” Cara teases and looks to Winta. “So, sorry Squirt, you’re on your own with these two.”

Winta giggles in response, but Omera thinks she looks as if she doesn’t mind at all.

“We actually hadn’t discussed it,” she confesses sheepishly. And suddenly, looking around and imagining Din within these walls, walking into the sitting room in the morning with hair in disarray, her stomach flutters.

When her gaze finally settles back to Cara, dark eyes taunt her, “Didn’t talk much did you?”

…

Soon after, Winta ventures off to find her friends, excitement clear in her tone as she asks if she can tell them the news. Cara made some excuse about “scoping out accommodation”, which stumps Omera no end because she thought they’d just established that the barn would be hers for the taking.

Either way, Omera feels her mind is a bit too frazzled to try make sense of Cara’s antics, so she stands from the table to make her way over to her room, easing down to sit on the edge of her bed. She figures she should probably help out in the kitchens, maybe spread the word a little before it gets around all the kids first.

Instead, she takes a moment for herself, to clear her chaotic mind and still her racing heart. It is something she very rarely does, time just didn’t allow it, she’s spent so long being so many things.

A farmer, a friend, a leader, a widow, a mother.

She isn’t sure she has the capacity to be anything else.

But soon she’d be a wife once more, to a man who deserves the whole galaxy and more. Much more than she can ever offer, but seems entirely content with what she can.

She breathes a deep sigh, clammy hands running over her skirts and clutching at her knees.

It had been just Winta and herself for so long that she isn’t even sure how someone else is supposed to fit into that, though Din had waltzed in, unexpecting, carving a place for himself without even realising.

She isn’t so delusional to think it will be seamless and without struggle, she knows it will be a learning curve for them all, but Din gives her a hope she hadn’t realised she’d lost somewhere along the way.

 _Stars_ , what was she even supposed to wear? Would they come back here, stay the night in this bedroom? On this bed, that she’d slept in alone, save for when Winta would sneak in amidst thunderstorms and nightmares?

She feels her heart escalating in an entirely different way than before, stress and anxiety tightening her lungs until she feels lightheaded and weak. But it is no use getting herself all worked up, and she resigns herself to just take a deep breath and push it to the back of her mind. Focus on the happiness, a word that is an utter understatement, and try her best to make the day pass quickly so that she may finally be bound to Din as she’s wished for so long.

That is how she finds herself in the kitchen, approaching a small gathering of woman as they sit around a high bench, prepping vegetables. Heidi is the first to notice her, and her head cocks comically to the side as she peers across at her.

“And what’s got you smiling so?” she asks, alerting the other women to look up from their easy conversation.

She hadn’t even realised she was smiling, and the notion only makes her face heat and smile deepen further as she settles onto one of the spare stools. She thinks over her words carefully, eyes following her index finger as it traces the wood grain on the table.

“… Din and I…,” she begins, clearing her throat softly. No matter how carefully she chooses her words, she cannot help the gentle laugh she breathes out as she lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “We’re getting married tonight.”

The silence that follows is deafening, the expertly nimble hands of the other women halting, knifes poised in their prep work. But judging by their faces, wide eyes alight and lips curled into happy grins, Omera can see nothing beyond mild surprise and genuine joy.

Heidi is the first to speak, dropping the knife and root vegetable in her hands in favour of reaching across the tabletop and clasping Omera’s hands in her own. “I’m so happy for the two of you,” she beams as she rocks their joined hands, glancing around as the other women follow her lead in congratulating.

“We never wanted to pry,” Pippa adds kindly, getting agreeing nods from the other woman. “But we always assumed there was definitely something there.”

Omera nods too, her lips twitching with the strain to reel her smile in, “There’s been something there since the very beginning, at least from my perspective.”

She knew they had been fooling no one, she never had been good at concealing her feelings, and she thinks perhaps Din had been the same. To everyone except her. She still can’t quite believe she’d been so convinced the attraction was one-sided.

“We’re so happy for you, this is just the _best_ news,” another says, voice having the tell-tale warble of emotion and Omera thinks she can even see water collecting in the woman’s eyes. Gyda had always been easy to tears, but it only makes the warmth in Omera’s chest swell more. Her people were a blessing, kind and pure.

“I know we aren’t supposed to wonder…,” Heidi begins quietly, a quick glance thrown over her shoulder to see that the men on the other side of the kitchen were occupied, namely her husband Dom judging by the suggestive quirk of her brow when she looks back. “But do you think he’ll be handsome?”

Well, maybe not ‘pure’ in all instances. And it just reminds Omera of all the times she’s seen Din without his helmet, some _particular_ memories making her heart thud and warmth rush to her stomach and flood her cheeks.

Pippa lets out a snort in good nature at the younger woman, “There’s no harm in wondering. We’re allowed to wonder, right Omera?”

But she doesn’t mask her thoughts quick enough, for Pippa catches the look on her face and looks thoroughly scandalised. A suggestive smirk that may even give Cara’s a run for its credits is plastered across her face as she leans in close over the table too, “Do you _know_ he’s handsome?”

Omera can only nod shyly, eyes widening as if to say handsome was a severe understatement in regards to the staunch Mandalorian. She is now unable to contain her grin as the other women give little hoots and giggles, hushing each other and casting conspiring looks over at the group of unsuspecting men in the corner. And the men carry on with their work, none the wiser.

Heidi sighs dramatically, a dreamy look on her face as she leans on an elbow, “If I wasn’t already married…”

The others tease her, poking at her ribs and asking about ‘poor Dom’. But it is all just in humour, they know Dom owns the entirety of Heidi’s heart.

“I’m married and can still appreciate Din and his appeal,” Pippa jokes as she retrieves another vegetable and begins working again to a chorus of cackling from the others.

It draws the men’s attention, and they share a strange look between them before shaking their heads and also returning to their own work. Omera giggles too, enjoying the presence of the other woman and gushing over Din freely now their relationship is out in the open.

* * *

By the time Cara saunters into the barn that afternoon, one of the village elders is just finishing up running through the ceremony procedure with Din and he feels his chest constricting in nerves. The kid sits in his lap, and Din is thankful for his light weight as it somehow grounds him in a way nothing else can. The elder had visited Din not too long before, smiling warmly and expressing he was honoured to be conducting the ceremony tonight.

Omera had obviously sought the man out and asked him, and it suddenly dawns on Din that he perhaps should have asked for more than just Winta’s blessing. Was that what one did when asking for the hand of a woman such as Omera? It was bad enough that he took up residence in their village, now he was taking one of their own as his wife.

But there is no inkling of anything other than genuine happiness in the older man’s eyes, and Din is once again reminded that he in no way deserves anything the village offers so freely.

“So you finally–,” Cara begins as she comes through the threshold, steps faltering only slightly when she takes in the man sitting across from Din at the table. “–Oop, sorry to interrupt.”

Before Din can say anything, the man is kindly waving off her apology and standing from the table, “I was just leaving.”

“Thank you,” Din nods, standing too, and the man exits with one last smile at the two of them.

Cara is leaning against the bench by the entrance, lips curled into a smug smile, but she doesn’t say a thing, merely lifts a brow when Din finally looks her way. He purses his lips, he’s just a little bit too tightly strung at the moment to deal with her teasing, and waits for the onslaught that never comes.

He lets out a huff of a breath when it becomes clear she isn’t going to say anything, and sits back down heavily in his chair, “So I take it you heard the news?”

“Yep,” she agrees, clearly allowing herself a moment of smirking teasing before the mirth fades from her face and she’s all business. “And it’s all set, I’ve got it all organised. Omera had already told people, and news travels fast so at least I didn’t steal her thunder.”

Din’s eyes widen in surprise under the helmet as he reclines back in the chair, an arm resting over the tabletop and busy fingers drumming into the wood. When he’d asked for her help with organising things, even before he’d proposed to Omera, he’d been sceptical. But she’d come through for him, clearly, without him having to even give her the go ahead.

“What’d I tell ya?” she asks rhetorically, pleased with herself. “Though I must say, I wasn’t _quite_ expecting to have to organise it for _tonight_ , but not to worry. Now, have you thought about where you’ll stay tonight?”

His fingers pause their beat as dread settles in his stomach. _He hadn’t_.

His face flames under the helmet, embarrassed that he was a _di’kut_ and hadn’t thought about where they would spend the night, but also with the realisation that they would spend the night _together_. He knew they would, of course he did, but his mind hadn’t quite caught up with the fact before now, and something other than dread punches the wind from him.

“Well, luckily _I_ have,” Cara reveals. “Give me access to your ship and I’ll clear it out. I’ve packed Omera’s things so you’ll both go there tonight. Then you can move in with them tomorrow and I’ll take this bachelor’s pad.”

Kriff. He hadn’t discussed that with Omera either, let alone even _considered_ it, and he tells Cara as such with a frustrated groan.

“We talked about it, don’t worry. She said much the same,” Cara explains with a roll of her eyes. “Honestly, do you two just not talk?”

The heat returns, blazing down his neck until the warmth from his cloak is stifling. He opens his mouth to reply, to explain that they did talk, a little, before somehow she ended up on top of him and kissed the thoughts clean from his mind.

But then Cara’s face is screwing up and she holds her hands up in surrender, “Actually, don’t answer that. I know what you two get up to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Din stammers out defensively, as quick as his foggy mind will allow.

The woman just snorts, giving him a look to let him know he wasn’t fooling anyone, “Come on, Din. We’re women, we’re gonna talk,” she says with a laugh. “Respectfully, of course.”

And it was no secret, Din knew they talked, and was likely better off not knowing of what, but the nagging self-conscious side of him just couldn’t ignore it.

“Does she mention…” he begins, not sure how to word such a thing and flushing even further, but thankfully Cara gets the gist, and for once spares him the embarrassment of spelling it out and gives a kind smile.

“Just how things are… progressing…”

“What does she say?” he blurts before clearing his suddenly raw throat. “Is it… okay…?”

A scandalised light glints in her dark eyes, transforming the once genuine smile to that of a characteristic smirk, “Girl talk is confidential, Din.”

He deflates immediately, but remembers that yes, he is likely better off not knowing.

“Don’t worry so much! You’re doing good. _Really_ good,” she winks, then walks forward and claps a hand over his pauldran in good nature. “Now come on, I’m not a miracle worker, and I can only imagine the state you managed to get your ship into.”

He sighs as he hauls himself to his feet to follow the woman, remembering that he’d signed up for this, he’d known the kind of friendship this would be from the moment she’d caught his gaze lingering on Omera for longer than strictly necessary.

They slip off to his ship without the village realising, all likely occupied with whatever tasks Cara had deemed necessary for them, he just hopes Omera doesn’t catch on.

Cara keeps her teasing to a minimum once at the Crest, sobering when she sees the evidence of his recent trip. They work in companionable silence, tidying up the hull and cabin, and Cara minds the kid while Din allows himself a shower and shave, raking hands through his mused hair and coming to the conclusion that this may be the last time he trims his own hair.

When he emerges once more, the day outside begins to darken, still light out, but night is steadily approaching. Cara has just finished up, and she sets an overnight bag on his cot.

The belongings she’d packed for Omera.

The soft sigh of the mattress under its weight echoes inside his helmet and he swallows thickly at the implication. Not long now.

They return to the village, the hum of conversation and trailing smoke from the hall evident from the moment the emerge from the woods and onto the dirt path into town. He means to join everyone, get the kid his portion, but Cara is pushing him off towards the barn with a stern warning of not seeing the bride before the wedding.

He tries to complain, disagree, but there really is no arguing with the woman, and so he trudges into the barn to await her return with his food.

“See you at your wedding,” she winks, placing a tray laden with food down for him on the bench.

The kid perks up immediately, practically diving for the meal even as Din makes his way over to it with nerves erupting in his stomach once more.

“Hmm,” he hums in confirmation, because he doubts he is capable of anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took muuuuuch too long to write, sorry! Been beating my head against the keyboard but it is finally done. I also had planned for the actual wedding to be in this chapter, but once again the words got away on me and I clearly just love to drag things out. Very dialogue heavy (eww) and not a lot happening, but next chapter will be the goods!
> 
> Thank you for hanging in there and putting up with my crazy update schedule (what schedule?!) ❤️


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